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WI1LIAH. BILACKWOOB AIB SOI§ e 
EDINBURGH AND LOILON; 
18 4 .9 . 



POEMS 



OP 



FELICIA HEMANS 



A NEW EDITION 



CHRONOLOGICALLY ARRANGED, -WITH ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES AND A SELECTION OF 
COTEMPORARY CRITICISMS 




WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS 

EDINBURGH AND LONDON 

MDCCCLII 



14 ' 



CONTENTS 



JUVENILE POEMS. 

Page 

On my Mother's Birthday. Written at the age of eight 1 

A Prayer. Written at the age of nine . . ib. 

Address to the Deity. Written at the age of eleven . ib. 

Shakspeare. Written at the age of eleven . . 2 
To my Brother and Sister in the country. Written at 

the age of eleven . . . . ib. 

Sonnet to my Mother. Written at the age of twelve ib. 

Sonnet. Written at the age of thirteen . . 3 

Rural Walks. Written at the age of thirteen . ib. 

Sonnet. Written at the age of thirteen . . ib. 
England and Spain ; or, Valour and Patriotism. 

Written at the age of fourteen ... 4 

THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS, &c. 

The Silver Locks. Addressed to an Ancient Friend 10 

To my Mother .11 

To my Younger Brother. On his Return from Spain, 
after the fatal Retreat under Sir John Moore 
and the hattle of Corunna . . ib. 

To my Eldest Brother, with the British army in Portugal 12 
Lines written in the Memoirs of Elizabeth Smith . ib. 
The Ruin and its Flowers . .. - .13 

Christmas Carol . . . . .14 

The Domestic Affections . . . .15 

To Mr Edwards, the Harper of Conway . . 19 

Epitaph on Mr W , a celebrated Mineralogist . 20 

Epitaph on the Hammer of the aforesaid Mineralogist ib. 
Prologue to The Poor Gentleman. As intended to be 
performed by the Officers of the 34th Regiment 
at Clonmel ..... 21 

THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART 

TO ITALY . . . . .22 

MODERN GREECE . . . . .28 

Critical Annotations ... . .42 

TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS 



Sonnet 70 .... 


43 


Sonnet 282. From Psalm 137 . 


. ib. 


Part of Eclogue 15 


44 


Sonnet 271 ... 


44 


Sonnet 186 .... 


. ib. 


Sonnet 108 .... 


44 



Sonnet 23. To a Lady who died at I 

Sonnet 19 

" Que estranho caso de amor!" 

Sonnet 58 

Sonnet 178 

Sonnet 80 

Sonnet 239. From Psalm 137 

Sonnet 128 

" Polomeu apartamento " 

Sonnet 205 

Sonnet 133 .. . 

Sonnet 181 • . 

Sonnet 278 

" Mi nueve y dulce querella" . 



Metastasis — " Dunque si sfoga in pianto " 

— " Al furor d'avversa Sorte " 

— " Quella onda che ruina " 

— " Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie" . 

— " Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine' 

— " Parlagli d'un periglio " 

— " Sprezza il furor del vento " 

— " Sol pud dir che sia contento " 

— " Ah ! frenate le piante imbelle! " 
Vincenzo da Filicaja. — " Italia ! Italia ! O tu cui 

die la sorte " . . . . 

Pastorini. — " Genova mia ! se con asciutto ciglio 
Lope de Vega. — " Estese el cortesano " 
Francisco Manuel.— On ascending a Hill leading to 

a Convent .... 

Della Casa. — Venice 
Il Marchese Cornelio Bentivoglio.— " L'anima 

bella, che dal vero Eliso " 
Quevedo. — Rome buried in her own Ruins . 
El conde Juan de Tarsis. — " Tu, que la dulce vida 

en tiernas anos " ... 

Torquato Tasso. — " Negli anni acerbi tuoi, pur 

purea rosa " . . . . 

Bernardo Tasso. — " Quest' ombra che giammai non 

vide il sole " 
Petrarch.—' ' Chi vuol veder quantunque pu6 natura 

— " Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde " 
Pietro Bembo.— " O Muerte ! que sueles ser" 
Francesco Lorenzini.— " O Zefiretto, che movendo 

vai" .... 

Gesner. — Morning Song «... 

German Song. — " Madchen, lernet Amor kennen " . 
Chaulieu.— " Grotte, d'ou sort ce clair ruisseau" . 



Page 
45 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
46 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
47 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 



ib. 
ib. 

49 

ib. 
ib. 
ib. 

ib. 

50 

ib. 
ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

51 
ib. 

ib. 
ib. 

ib. 

52 

ib. 
ib. 



iv 


CONTENTS. 






Page 






Garcilaso de Vega.—" Coyed de vuestra alegre 


WELSH MELODIES. 




primavera" . 


52 




Page 


Lorenzo de Medici. — Violets 


53 


The Harp of Wales. Introductory stanzas 


145 


Pindemonte.— On the Hebe of Canova 


ib. 


Druid Chorus on the Landing of the Romans 


ib. 






The Green Isles of Ocean 


146 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 




The Sea-Song of Gafran 


ib. 






The Hirlas Horn .... 


ib. 


Lines written in a Hermitage on the Sea-shore 


54 


The Hall of Cynddylan 


147 


Dirge of a Child .... 


ib. 


The Lament of Llywarch Hen 


ib. 


Invocation ..... 


55 


Grufydd's Feast .... 


148 


To the Memory of General Sir E— D P— K— M 


ib. 


The Cambrian in America 


ib. 


To the Memory of Sir H— Y E— LL— S, who fell ir 




Taliesin's Prophecy .... 


ib. 


the battle of Waterloo . 


56 


Owen Glyndwr's War-Song 


149 


Guerilla Song. Founded on the story related of th< 




Prince Madoc's Farewell 


ib. ' 


Spanish patriot Mina 


ib. 


Caswallon's Triumph 


150 


The Aged Indian, .... 


ib. 


Howel's Song ..... 


ib. 


Evening amongst the Alps 


57 


The Mountain Fires .... 


ib. 


Dirge of the Highland Chief in " Waverley " 


ib. 


EryriWen ..... 


151 


The Crusaders' War- Song 


58 


Chant of the Bards before their Massacre by Edward I 


ib. 


The Death of Clanronald 


ib. 


The Dying Bard's Prophecy 


152 


To the Eye ..... 


59 


The Fair Isle. For the melody called the "Welsh 




The Hero's Death, 


ib. 


Ground" .... 


ib. 


Stanzas on the Death of the Princess Charlotte 


ib. 


The Rock of Cader Idris 


ib. 


Wallace's invocation to beuce. 


63 


THE VESPERS OP PALERMO 


153 


Advertisement by the Author, &c. 


ib. 


Critical Annotations 


186 


TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 




Stanzas to the Memory of George the Third . 


187 


The Abencerrage .... 


67 






The Widow of Crescentius 


85 


TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 




The Last Banquet of Antony and Cleopatra . 


93 






Alaric in Italy ..... 


95 


The Maremma ..... 


191 


The Wife of Asdrubal .... 


97 


A Tale of the Secret Tribunal 


194 


Heliodorus in the Temple 


98 


The Caravan in tlie Deserts 


210 


Night-scene in Genoa. From Sismondi's "R£pub 




Marius amongst the Ruins of Carthage 


212 


liques Italiennes .... 


99 


A Tale of the Fourteenth Century. A Fragment 


213 


The Troubadour and Richard Cceur-de-Lion . 


101 


Belshazzar's Feast .... 


219 


The Death of Conradin 


103 


The Last Constantine .... 


221 


Critical Annotations 


105 


Annotations on the Last Constantine . 
The League of the Alps ; or, the Meeting of the Field 


234 


THE SCEPTIC 


106 


ofGrutli .... 


ib. 


Critical Annotations 


113 


SONGS OF THE CID. 




SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION . 


114 










The Cid's Departure into Exile 


238 


ITALIAN LITERATURE. 




The Cid's Deathbed .... 


ib. 






The Cid's Funeral Procession 


239 


The Basvigliana of Monti 


118 


The Cid's Rising . . . • . 


241 


The Alcestis of Alfieri .... 


121 






11 Conte di Carmagnola. A tragedy. By Alessandn 


> 


GREEK SONGS. 




Manzoni ..... 


125 






Caius Gracchus. A tragedy. By Monti 


. 133 


The Storm of Delphi .... 


241 






The Bowl of Liberty .... 


242 


PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS OF THE ITALIAN POE 


TS. 


The Voice of Scio . . . 


243 


Vincenzo da Filicaja .... 


138 


The Spartans' March .... 


ib. 


Carlo Maria Maggi . . . . 


ib. 


The Urn and Sword 


244 


Alessandro Marchetti .... 


ib. 


The Myrtle Bough .... 


ib. 


Alessandro Pegolotti .... 


ib. 






Francesco Maria de Conti.— The Shore of Africa 


ib. 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 









On a Flower from the Field of Grutli 


244 


Jeu-d'Esprit on the word " Barb " 


. 139 


On a Leaf from the Tomb of Virgil 


245 


The Fever-Dream .... 


ib. 


The Chieftain's Son .... 


ib. 






A Fragment ..... 


ib. 


DARTMOOR ..... 


. 141 


England's Dead .... 


246 





CONTENTS. 


V 




Page 




Page 


The Meeting of the Bards. Written for an Eistedd- 




Brandenburg Harvest-Song. From the German of 




vod, or meeting of Welsh Bards, held in Lon- 




La Motte Fouqu£ ... 


348 


don, May 22, 1822 ... 


246 


The Shade of Theseus. An Ancient Greek Tradition 


349 


The Voice of Spring .... 


247 


Ancient Greek Song of Exile . 


ib. 


Elysium ..... 


249 


Greek Funeral Chant, or Myriologue . 


ib. 


The Funeral Genius. An Ancient Statue 


250 


Greek Parting Song . 


351 


The Tombs of Plataea .... 


251 


The Suliote Mother 


352 


The View from Castri .... 


ib. 


The Farewell to the Dead . 


353 


The Festal Hour .... 


252 






Song of the Battle of Morgarten 


253 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 




Ode on the Defeat of King Sebastian of Portugal and 




I go, Sweet Friends ! 


354 


his army in Africa. Translated from the Spanish 




Angel Visits ..... 


ib. 


ofHerrera .... 


254 


Ivy Song. Written on receiving some Ivy-leaves 
gathered from the ruined Castle of Rheinfels 




SEBASTIAN OP PORTUGAL . 


256 


on the Rhine .... 


ib. 






To one of the Author's children on his Birthday 


355 


THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA . 


262 








On a Similar Occasion 


ib. 


Advertisement by the Author, . 
Critical Annotations 


ib. 

292 


Christ Stilling the Tempest 

Epitaph over the Grave of Two Brothers 


ib. 
356 






Monumental Inscription 


ib. 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 




The Sound of the Sea . 


ib. 


Song. Founded on an Arabian Anecdote 


293 


The Child and Dove. Suggested by Chantrey's statue 




Alp-Horn Song. Translated from the German of Tieck 294 


of Lady Louisa Russell . 


357 


The Cross of the South 


ib. 


A Dirge ..... 


ib. 


The Sleeper of Marathon 


295 


Scene in a Dalecarlian Mine 


ib. 


To Miss F. A. L. on her Birthday 


ib. 


English Soldier's Song of Memory. To the air of " An 


i 


Written on the First Leaf of the Album of the Same 


ib. 


Rhein! Am Rhein ! " 


358 


To the Same, on the Death of her Mother 


296 


Haunted Ground 


ib. 


From the Spanish of Garcilaso de la Vega 


ib. 


The Child of the Forests. Written after reading tin 




From the Italian of Satmazaro 


ib. 


Memoirs of John Hunter 


359 


Appearance of the Spirit of the Cape to Vasco de Gama 




Stanzas to the Memory of * * * 


360 


Translated from Camoens 


297 


The Vaudois Valleys . . . 


ib. 


A Dirge ..... 


298 


Song of the Spanish Wanderer 


. 361 






The Contadina. Written for a Picture 


. ib. 


TRANSLATIONS PROM HORACE. 




Troubadour Song . . 


ib. 


To Venus ..... 


298 


The Treasures of the Deep 


ib. 


To his Attendant .... 


ib. 


Bring Flowers ..... 


. 362 


To Debus 

To the Fountain of Bandusia . 




The Crusader's Return .... 


. 363 


ib. 


Thekla's Song ; or, the Voice of a Spirit. From th 








German of Schiller' 


. 364 


To Faunus ..... 


ib. 










The Revellers . . . 


ib. 


DE CHATILLONJ OR, THE CRUSADERS 


300 


The Conqueror's Sleep .... 


. 365 


Critical Annotations 


315 


Our Lady's Well .... 


. ib. 






The Parting of Summer 


. 366 


THE FOREST SANCTUARY . 


316 


The Songs of our Fathers 


ib. 


Critical Annotations 


336 


The World in the Open Air 


. 367 






Kindred Hearts .... 


ib. 


LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 




The Traveller at the Source of the Nile 


. 368 






Casabianca ..... 


. 369 


Moorish Bridal-Song .... 


338 


The Dial of Flowers .... 


ib. 


The Bird's Release .... 


ib. 


Our Daily Paths .... 


. 370 


The Sword of the Tomb. A Northern Legend 


339 


The Cross in the Wilderness 


. 371 


Valkyriur Song . 


340 


Last Rites . . . 


. 372 


The Cavern of the Three Tells. A Swiss Tradition 


341 


The Hebrew Mother .... 


ib. 


Swiss Song. On the Anniversary of an Ancient Battle 


342 


The Wreck . . . . - . 


373 


The Messenger Bird .... 


343 


The Trumpet . . . 


374 


Answer to The'Messenger Bird, by an American 




Evening Prayer at a Girls' School 


ib. 


Quaker Lady . . . . r 


ote, ib. 


The Hour of Death .... 


375 


The Stranger in Louisiana . . t . 


ib. 


The Lost Pleiad .... 


ib 


The Isle of Founts. An Indian Tradition 


344 


The Cliffs of Dover . 


376 


The Bended Bow .... 


345 


The Graves of Martyrs 


ib. 


He never smiled again .... 


346 


The Hour of Prayer .... 


377 


Coeur-de-Lion at the Bier of his Father 


ib. 


The Voice of Home to the Prodigal 


ib. 


The Vassal's Lament for the Fallen Tree 


347 


The Wakening ..... 


378 


The Wild Huntsman .... 


348 


The Breeze from Shore 


ib. 



vi 


CONTENTS. 






Page 




Page 


The Dying Improvisatore 


. 379 


The Distant Ship 


. 434 


Music of Yesterday 


. ib. 


The Birds of Passage 


. ib, 


The Forsaken Hearth . 


. 380 


The Graves of a Household 


. 435 


The Dreamer 


ib. 


Mozart's Requiem 


ib. 


The Wings of the Dove 


. 381 


The Image in Lava 


. 436 


Psyche borne by Zephyrs to the Island of Pleasure 382 
The Boon of Memory . . . . . ib. 


Christmas Carol 

A Father Reading the Bible 


. 437 
ib. 


Dramatic scene between Bronwylfa and Rhyllon . 383 


The Meeting of the Brothers 


. ib. 






The Last Wish 


. 438 


RECORDS OF WOMAN. 


Fairy Favours 


. 439 


Arabella Stuart 


. 385 


Critical Annotations 


. 440 


The Bride of the Greek Isle 
The Bride's Farewell 


. 388 
. 389 


SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. . 


The Switzer's Wife 


. 391 


A Spirit's Return 


. 442 


Properzia Rossi 


. 392 


The Lady of Provence . 


. 446 


Gertrude ; or, Fidelity till Deat 


a . .394 


The Coronation of Inez de Cast 


ro 448 


Imelda 


. ib. 


Italian Girl's Hymn to the Virg 


in . . 449 


Edith. A Tale of the Woods 


. 396 


To a Departed Spirit 


. ib. 


The Indian City 


. 398 


The Chamois Hunter's Love 


. 450 


The Peasant Girl of the Rhone 


. 401 


The Indian with his Dead Child 


. ib. 


Indian Woman's Death-Song 


. 402 


Song of Emigration 


. 451 


Joan of Arc in Rheims 


. 403 


The King of Arragon's Lament 


for his Brother . 452 


Pauline 


. 404 


The Return 


. 453 


Juana 


. 405 


The Vaudois Wife 


. ib. 


The American Forest Girl 


. 406 


The Guerilla Leader's Vow 


. 454 


Costanza 


. 407 


Thekla at her Lover's Grave 


. 455 


Madeline. A Domestic Tale 


. 408 


The Sisters of Scio 


. ib. 


The Queen of Prussia's Tomb 


. 409 


Bernardo del Carpio 


. 456 


The Memorial Pillar 


. 410 


The Tomb of Madame Langhan 


s . .457 


The Grave of a Poetess 


. 411 


The Exile's Dirge 


. ib. 






The Dreaming Child 


. 458 


MISCELLANEC 


)US POEMS. 


The Charmed Picture . 


. ib. 


The Homes of England 

The Sicilian Captive 

Ivan the Czar 

Carolan's Prophecy 

The Lady of the Castle. From tl 

an unfinished poem 
The Mourner for the Barmecide 
The Spanish Chapel 
The Kaiser's Feast 
Tasso and his Sister 
Ulla ; or, The Adjuration 
To Wordsworth 


. 412 
. ib. 
. 413 
. 414 

le " Portrait Gallery," 

. 416 

s . .417 
. 418 
. 419 
. 420 
. 421 
. 422 


Parting Words . 

The Message to the Dead 

The Two Homes 

The Soldier's Deathbed 

The Image in the Heart 

The Land of Dreams 

Woman on the Field of Battle 

The Deserted House 

The Stranger's Heart 

To a Remembered Picture 

Come Home 

The Fountain of Oblivion 


. 459 
ib. 
. 460 
. 461 
. ib. 
. 462 
. ib. 
. 463 
. 464 
. ib. 
. 465 
. ib. 


A Monarch's Deathbed 
To the Memory of Heber 


. 423 
. ib. 


MISCELLANEC 


)US POEMS. 


The Adopted Child 


ib. 


The Bridal-Day 


.466 


Invocation 


. 424 


The Ancestral Song 


. 467 


Korner and his Sister 


. ib. 


The Magic Glass 


. 468 


The Death-Day of Korner 


. 425 


Corinne at the Capitol . 


. 469 


An Hour of Romance . 


. 427 


The Ruin 


. ib. 


A Voyager's Dream of Land 


ib. 


The Minster 


. 470 


The Effigies 


. 428 


The Song of Night 


. 471 


The Landing of the Pilgrim Fat 


hers in New England 429 


The Storm-Painter in his Dung 


eon . . ib. 


The Spirit's Mysteries . 


. ib. 


The Two Voices 


. 472 


The Departed 


. 430 


The Parting Ship 


. 473 


The Palm-Tree 


. ib. 


The Last Tree of the Forest 


. ib. 


The Child's Last Sleep. Sugge 


sted by a Monument 


The Streams 


. 474 


of Chantrey's 


. 431 


The Voice of the Wind 


. 475 


The Sunbeam 


. ib. 


The Vigil of Arms 


. 476 


Breathings of Spring 


. 432 


The Heart of Bruce in Melrose 


Abbey . . ib. 


The Illuminated City 


. ib. 


Nature's Farewell 


. ffl 


The Spells of Home 


. 433 


The Beings of the Mind 


. ib. 


Roman Girl's Song 


. ib. 


The Lyre's Lament 


. 478 





CONTENTS. 


vii 




Page 




Page 


Tasso's Coronation- . 

The Better Land^ .... 


479 


The Child's Return from the Woodlands 


506 


ib. 


The Faith of Love .... 


507 


The Wounded Eagle 


480 


The Sister's Dream, .... 


ib. 


Sadness and Mirth .... 


ib 


A Farewell to Abbotsford 


508 


The Nightingale's Death-Song 


481 


O'Connor's Child .... 


ib. 


The Diver ..... 


. ib 


The Prayer for Life .... 


509 


The Requiem of Genius 


48S 


The Welcome to Death 


ib. 


Triumphant Music .... 


48£ 


The Victor ..... 


510 


Second-Sight ..... 


ib 


Lines written for the Album at Rosanna 


ib. 


The Sea-Bird flying inland 


484 


The Voice of the Waves. Written near the scene o 


1 


The Sleeper 


ib 


a recent Shipwreck 


511 


The Mirror in the Deserted Hall 


ib 


The Haunted House .... 


. ib. 


To the Daughter of Bernard Barton, the Quaker Poe 


48£ 


The Shepherd-Poet of the Alps 


512 


The Star of the Mine .... 


ib 


To the Mountain-Winds 


514 


Washington's Statue. Sent from England to Americ£ 


i ib 


The Procession ..... 


515 


A Thought of Home at Sea 


48e 


The Broken Lute .... 


ib. 


To the Memory of a Sister-in-Law 


ib 


The Burial in the Desert 


516 


To an Orphan ..... 


ib 


To a Picture of the Madonna . 


517 


Hymn by the Sickbed of a Mother 


48; 


A Thought of the Rose 


518 


Where is the Sea ? Song of the Greek Islander in Exile 


i ib 


Dreams of Heaven .... 


. ib. 


To my own Portrait .... 


ib 


The Wish 


519 


No More ..... 


486 


Written after visiting a Tomb near Woodstock, in the 




Passing Away ..... 


48£ 


county of Kilkenny 


ib. 


The Angler ..... 


ib 


Epitaph ...... 


520 


Death and the Warrior 


49C 


Prologue to the Tragedy of Fiesco 


ib. 


Song. For an air by Hummel 


ib 


To Giulio Regondi, the Boy Guitarist 


ib. 


To the Memory of Lord Charles Murray, son of the 




ye Hours ! 


ib. 


Duke of Atholl, who died in the cause anc 




The Freed Bird .... 


521 


lamented by the people of Greece 


ib 


Marguerite of France .... 


ib. 


The Broken Chain .... 


491 


The Wanderer ..... 


523 


The Shadow of a Flower 


ib 


The Last Words of the Last Wasp of Scotland 


ib. 


Lines to a Butterfly resting on a Skull 


ib 


To Caroline . . 


524 


The Bell at Sea 


49S 


The Flower of the Desert 


ib. 


The Subterranean Stream 


ib 


Critical Annotations . . . 


ib. 


The Silent Multitude .... 


49C 






The Antique Sepulchre . ... 


ib 


HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD. / 




Evening Song of the Tyrolese Peasants 


494 


[ 




The Memory of the' Dead 


. ib 


Introductory Verses .... 


528 


He walked with God .... 


4QI 


The Rainbow . . . . 


529 


The Rod of Aaron .... 


ib 


The Sun . . 


ib. 


The Voice of God .... 


ib 


The Rivers ..... 


ib. 


The Fountain of Marah 


49( 


The Stars . . . . 


530 


The Penitent's Offering 


. ib 


The Ocean 


ib. 


The Sculptured Children 


ib 


The Thunderstorm .... 


531 


Woman and Fame .... 


m 


The Birds 


ib. 


A Thought of the Future 


495 


5 The Skylark. Child's Morning Hymn 


532 


The Voice of Music .... 


ib 


The Nightingale. Child's Evening Hymn 


ib. 


The Angel's Greeting .... 


49< 


The Northern Spring .... 


. 533 


A Farewell to Wales .... 


ib 


Paraphrase of Psalm 148 


ib. 


Impromptu Lines addressed to Miss F. A. L. on re 






/ 


ceiving from her some Flowers when confinec 


I 


LYRICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 




by illness .... 


ib 


NATIONAL LYRICS. 




A Parting Song .... 


50( 






We return no more .... 


ib 


The Themes of Song .... 


534 


To a Wandering Female Singer 


501 


Rhine Song of the German Soldiers after Victory. T( 


) 


Lights and Shades .... 


ib 


the air of " Am Rhein ! Am Rhein ! " 


ib. 


The Palmer . 


ib 


A Song of Delos .... 


535 


The Child's First Grief V 


50S 


Ancient Greek Chant of Victory 


536 


To the New-Born .... 


ib 


Naples. A Song of the Syren 


ib. 


The Death-Song of Alcestis 


ib 


The Fall of D'Assas. A Ballad of France 


537 


The Home of Love .... 


50C 


j The Burial of William the Conqueror 


ib. 


Books and Flowers .... 


504 


SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT. 




For a Picture of St Cecilia attended by Angels 


bOi 






The Brigand Leader and his Wife. Suggested by a pic 




Near thee ! still near thee ! . . 


538 


ture of Eastlake's 


50f 


> Oh ! Droop thou not . . 


ib. 



viii 


CONTENTS. 






Page 


SONGS OF SPAIN. 




Look on me with thy cloudless eyes . . .561 




Page 


If thou hast crush'd a flower 






562 


Ancient Battle- Song . 


539 


Brightly hast thou fled . 






ib. 


The Zegri Maid . 


ib. 


The Bed of Heath 






ib. 


The Rio Verde Song . . . . 


ib. 


Fairy Song 






ib. 


Seek by the Silvery Darro . 


540 


What Woke the Buried Sound 






563 


Spanish Evening Hymn . 


ib. 


Sing to me, Gondolier ! 






ib. 


Bird that art Singing on Ebro's Side ! 


ib. 


Look on me thus no more 






ib. 


Moorish Gathering-Song . 


ib. 


O'er the far blue Mountains 






ib. 


The Song of Mina's Soldiers . 


541 


O thou Breeze of Spring ! 






ib. 


Mother ! Oh, sing me to rest . 


ib. 


Come to me, Dreams of Heaven ! 






564 


There are Sounds in the Dark Roncesvalles . 


ib. 


Good-Night 
Let her Depart 






ib. 
ib. 


SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS. 




How can that Love so deep, so lone 






565 


And I too in Arcadia .... 


541 


Water-Lilies. A Fairy Song 






ib. 


The Wandering Wind . 


542 


The Broken Flower 




ib. 


Ye are not miss'd, fair Flowers ! 


ib. 


I would we had not met again 




ib. 


The Willow Song .... 


ib. 


Fairies' Recall 




ib. 


Leave me not yet . 


543 


The Rock beside the Sea 




566 


The Orange Bough . . . . . 


ib. 


ye Voices gone ! 






ib. 


The Stream set Free .... 


ib. 


By a Mountain-Stream at rest 






ib. 


The Summer's Call . 


ib. 


Is there some Spirit sighing 






ib. 


Oh ! Skylark, for thy Wing ! . 


544 


The Name of England . 






567 


SONGS OF CAPTIVITY. 




Old Norway. A Mountain War-song 
Come to me, Gentle Sleep ! 




ib. 

ib. 


Introduction ..... 


545 




The Brother's Dirge .... 


ib. 




The Alpine Horn . . . . . 


ib. 


SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 


ye Voices ! . . . . . 


ib. 


Preface ....... 568 


I Dream of all things Free 


546 


The English Martyrs. A scene of the days of Queen 


Far o'er the Sea .... 


ib. 


Mary ..... r ih- 


The Invocation .... 


ib. 


Flowers and Music in a Room of Sickness 


572 


The Song of Hope .... 


ib. 


Cathedral Hymn .... 


574 


MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 




Wood Walk and Hymn 


576 


The Call to Battle .... 


547 


Prayer of the Lonely Student . 


. 577 


Mignon's Song. Translated from Goethe 


ib. 


The Traveller's Evening Song . 


579 


The Sisters. A Ballad .... 


548 


Burial of an Emigrant's Child in the Forests 


. ib. 


The Last Song of Sappho 


549 


Easter-Day in a Mountain Churchyard 


. 581 


Dirge ...... 


ib. 


The Child Reading the Bible 


. 583 


A Song of the Rose .... 


550 


A Poet's Dying Hymn 


. ib. 


Night-Blowing Flowers 


551 


The Funeral-Day of Sir Walter Scott 


. 585 


The Wanderer and the Night-Flowers 


. ib. 


The Prayer in the Wilderness 


. 586 


Echo-Song ..... 


. ib. 


Prisoners' Evening Service. A Scene of the Frenc 


l 


The Muffled Drum .... 


552 


Revolution .... 


. 587 


The Swan and the Skylark 


ib. 


Hymn of the Vaudois Mountaineers in times of Per 




The Curfew-Song of England . 


553 


secution .... 


588 


Genius Singing to Love 


. 554 


Prayer at Sea after Victory 


. 589 


Music at a Deathbed .... 


. ib. 


The Indian's Revenge. Scene in the life of a Moraviai 


X 


Marshal Schwerin's Grave 


555 


Missionary .... 


. 590 


The Fallen Lime-Tree .... 


. ib. 


Evening Song of the Weary 


. 592 


The Bird at Sea . 


. 556 


The Dajfcof Flowers . . 


ib. 


The Dying Girl and Flowers 


. ib. 


Hymn of the Traveller's Household on his Return— ii 


i 


The Ivy Song ..... 


. 557 


the Olden Time .... 


. 594 


The Music of St Patrick's 


ib. 


The Painter's Last Work 


. 595 


Keene ; or, Lament of an Irish Mother over her Son 


558 


A Prayer of Affection .... 


. 596 


Far Away ..... 




Mother's Litany by the Sick-bed of a Child . 


ib. 


The Lyre and Flower .... 


. 559 


Night-Hymn at Sea. The words written for a melody 


Sister! since I met thee last 


ib. 


byFelton. 597 


The Lonely Bird .... 


. ib. 




Dirge at Sea ..... 


. ib. 


SONNETS. 


Pilgrim's Song to the Evening Star 


. 560 


FEMALE CHARACTERS OF SCRIPTURE. 


The Meeting of the Ships 


. ib. 




Come Away ..... 


. ib. 


Invocation ...... ib. 


Fair Helen of Kirkconnel 


. 561 


Invocation continued . . . . . ib. 


Music from Shore .... 


. ib. 


The Song of Miriam . . . . .598 

« 



CONTENTS. 



Ruth 

The Vigil of Rizpah .... 

The Reply of the Shunamite Woman . 

The Annunciation .... 

The Song of the Virgin 

The Penitent anointing Christ's Feet 

Mary at the Feet of Christ 

The Sisters of Bethany after the Death of Lazarus 

The Memorial of Mary .... 

The Women of Jerusalem at the Cross 

Mary Magdalene at the Sepulchre 

Mary Magdalene bearing Tidings of the Resurrection 

SONNETS, DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL. 

The Sacred Harp . . . . 

To a Family Bible .... 

Repose of a Holy Family. From an old Italian Picture 

Picture of the Infant Christ with Flowers 

On a Remembered Picture of Christ — an Ecce Homo 

by Leonardo da Vinci 
The Children whom Jesus Blessed 
Mountain Sanctuaries . 
The Lilies of the Field . 
The Birds of the Air 
The Raising of the Widow's Son 
The Olive Tree . 
The Darkness of the Crucifixion 
Places of Worship 
Old Church in an English Park 
A Church in North Wales 
Louise Schepler 
To the Same 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The Two Monuments .... 

The Cottage Girl .... 

The Battle-Field .... 

A Penitent's Return .... 

A Thought of Paradise 

Let us Depart ..... 

On a Picture of Christ Bearing the Cross — painted by 

Velasquez .... 

Communings with Thought 
The Water-Lily ..... 
The Song of Penitence. Unfinished . 
Troubadour Song .... 

The English Boy .... 

To the Blue Anemone .... 

SCENES AND PASSAGES PROM GOETHE. 



Scenes from ' 

Scenes from " Iphigenia. 



A Fragment 



Page 
598 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
599 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
599 

ib. 
600 

ib. 



ib. 
ib. 
601 



ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
602 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
603 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 



ib. 
605 
ib. 



607 
ib. 

608 

609 
ib. 
ib. 

610 



611 
515 



RECORDS OP THE SPRING OF 1834. 

A Vernal Thought 

To the Sky 

On Records of Immature Genius 

On Watching the Flight of a Skylark 

A Thought of the Sea . 

Distant Sound of the Sea at Evening 

The River Clwyd in North Wales 

Orchard-Blossoms 

To a Distant Scene 

A Remembrance of Grasmere 

Thoughts connected with Trees 

The Same 

On Reading Paul and Virginia in Childhood 

A Thought at Sunset 

Images of Patriarchal Life 

Attraction of the East . 

To an Aged Friend 

A Happy Hour 

Foliage 

A Prayer 

Prayer continued 

Memorial of a Conversation 



RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834. 

The Return to Poetry 

To Silvio Pellico, on Reading his " Prigione " 

To the Same released .... 

On a Scene in the Dargle 

On the Datura Arborea 

On Reading Coleridge's Epitaph 

Design and Performance 

Hope of Future Communion with Nature 

Dreams of the Dead .... 

The Poetry of the Psalms 

Despondency and Aspiration 

The Huguenot's Farewell 

Antique Greek Lament 

THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS. 

Intellectual Powers .... 
Sickness like Night . . 

On Retzsch's Design of the Angel of Death . 
Remembrance of Nature . . . . 

Flight of the Spirit . 

Flowers ..... 

Recovery , 

Sabbath Sonnet. Composed by Mrs Hemans a few c 
before her death 



Appendix 
Index . 
Index to first lines 



Page 
617 

ib. 

ib. 
618 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
619 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
620 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
620 
621 

ib. 

ib. 



622 



623 

ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
624 
ib. 



627 
ib. 

ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 



ib. 



642 



CHRONOLOGY 



OF 



MRS HEMANS' LIFE AND WORKS 



1793. 

Felicia Dokothea Browne, born at Liverpool, 
Sept. 25. 

1800, (set. 7.) 
Eemoves with family from Liverpool to 
Gwrych, near Abergele, Denbighshire. — Shortly 
afterwards composes Lines on her Mother's 
Birthday. 

1804, (11.) 
Spends winter in London. — "Writes thence 
letter in rhyme to brother and sister in Wales. 

\l808, (15.) 
Collection of poems printed in 4to.. — England 
and Spain written. — Becomes acquainted with 
Captain Hemans. 

1809, (16.) 
Family remove to Bronwylfa in Flintshire. — 
Pursues her studies in French, Italian, Spanish, 
and Portuguese. — Acquires the elements of 
German; and shows a taste for drawing and 
music. 

1812, (19.) 

J Domestic Affections and other poems published. 
— Marries Captain Hemans. — Takes up residence 
at Daventry, Northamptonshire. 

1813, (20.) 

Son Arthur born— Beturns to Bronwylfa. 



1816, (23.) 

Publishes Kestoration of the Works of Art to 
Italy; also Modern Greece. 

1818, (25.) 

\j Makes Translations from Camoens and others. 
— Publishes Stanzas on the Death of Princess 
Charlotte, {Blackwood's Magazine, April.) 

1819, (26.) 

Titles and Historic Scenes published. — Gains 
prize for best poem on the Meeting of Wallace 
and Bruce. — Captain Hemans takes up residence 
in Italy. — Family consists of five sons. 

1820, (27.) 

Publishes poem of Sceptic. — Becomes ac- 
quainted with Bishop Heber and his brother 
Bichard. — Corresponds with Mr Gifford. — Con- 
tributes papers on Foreign Literature to Edin- 
burgh Magazine. — Publishes Stanzas to the Memory 
of George the Third. — Visits Wavertree Lodge, 
near Liverpool, (October.) 

1821, (28.) 

Poem of Dartmoor obtains prize offered by 
Boyal Society of Literature. — Corresponds with 
Bev. Mr Milman, and Dr Croly. — Writes Vespers 
of Palermo. — Extends her German studies. 
Writes Welsh Melodies. 



CHRONOLOGY OF LIFE AND WORKS. 



1822, (29.) 

Siege of Valencia, and Songs of the Cid written ; 
— also dramatic fragment of Don Sebastian. 

1823, (30.) 

Contributes to Thomas Campbell's New Monthly 
Magazine. — Voice of Spring written, (March.) — 
Siege of Valencia published, along with Last 
Constantine and Belshazzar's Feast. — Vespers of 
Palermo performed at Covent Garden, (Dec. 12.) 

1824, (31.) 

Composes De Chatillon, revised MS. of which 
unfortunately lost. — Writes Lays of Many Lands. 
— Removes with family from Bronwylfa to 
Rhyllon. 

1825, (32.) 

Treasures of the Deep, The Hebrew Mother, 
The Hour of Death, Graves of a Household, The 
Cross in the Wilderness, and many other of her 
best lyrics written. 

1826, (33.) 

The Forest Sanctuary published, together with 
Lays of Many Lands. — Commences correspon- 
dence with Professor Norton of Boston, U.S., 
who republishes her works there. 

1827, (34.) 

Mrs Hemans loses her mother (11th January.) — 
Writes Hymns for Childhood, which are first 
published in America. — Corresponds with Joanna 
Baillie, Anne Grant, Mary Mitford, Caroline 
Bowles, Mary Howitt, and M. J. Jewsbury. — 
Writes Korner to his Sister, Homes of England, 
An Hour of Romance, The Palm-Tree, and many 
other lyrics. — Health becomes impaired. 

1828, (35.) 

/ Publishes with Mr Blackwood Records of Woman, 
and collected Miscellanies, (May.) — Contributes 
regularly to Blackwood" s Magazine. — Visits Waver- 
tree Lodge early in summer. — Removes to village 
of Wavertree with family in September. 

1829, (36.) 

Writes Lady of Provence, To a Wandering 
Female Singer, The Child's First Grief, The 
Better Land, and Miscellanies. — Voyages to Scot- 
land, (June,) and visits Mr Henry M'Kenzie, Rev. 
Mr Alison, Lord Jeffrey, Sir Walter Scott, Captain 



Hamilton, Captain Basil Hall, and other distin- 
guished literati. — Returns to England, (Sept.) — 
A Spirit's Return composed. 

- 1830, (37.) 
I-Songs of the Affections published. — Visits the 
Lakes and Mr Wordsworth. — Domiciles during 
part of summer at Dove's Nest, near Ambleside. 
— Revisits Scotland, (Aug.) — Returns by Dublin 
and Holyhead to Wales. 

1831. (38.) 

State of health delicate. — Quits England for last 
time, (April,) and proceeds to Dublin. — Visits the 
Hermitage, near Kilkenny, and Woodstock. — Re- 
turns to Dublin, (Aug.) — Writes various lyrics. 

1832. (39,) 

Health continues greatly impaired. — Writes 
Miscellaneous Lyrics, Songs of Spain, and Songs 
of a Guardian Spirit. 

1833. (40.) 

Feels recruited during spring. — Writes Songs of 
Captivity, Songs for Summer Hours, and many of 
Scenes and Hymns of Life. — Composes Sonnets 
Devotional and Memorial. — Commences trans- 
lation of Scenes and Passages from German 
Authors, (December.) 

1834. (41.) 

Hymns for Childhood published (March;) 
also National Lyrics aiicf Songs for Music. 
— Paper on Tasso, published in New Monthly 
Magazine, (May.) — Writes Fragment of Paper on 
Iphigenia. — Records of Spring 1834 written, 
(April, May, June.) — Is seized with fever ; during 
convalescence retires into county of Wicklow. — 
Returns to Dublin in autumn, and has attack of 
ague. — Composes Records of Autumn 1834. — 
Writes Despondency and Aspiration, (Oct. and 
Nov.) — The Huguenot's Farewell and Antique 
Greek Lament, (Nov.)— Thoughts during Sickness 
written, (Nov. and Dec.) — Retires during conval- 
escence to Redesdale, a country-seat of the Arch- 
bishop of Dublin. 

1835. (42.) 

Returns to Dublin, (March.) — Debility gradually 
increases. — Corresponds regarding Sir Robert 
Peel's appointment of her son Henry. — Dictates 
Sabbath Sonnet, (April 26.)— Departs this life, (16th 
May.) — Remains interred in vault beneath St 
Anne's Church, Dublin. 



THE 


POETICAL WORKS 


OP 

MRS HEMANS 


JUVENILE POEMS 


ON MY MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY. 


Contented with the humblest lot — 




Happy, though in the meanest cot. 


WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF EIGHT. 




Clad in all their brightest green, 




This day the verdant fields are seen; 


ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. 


The tuneful birds begin their lay, 




To celebrate thy natal day. 


WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN. 




The infant muse, Jehovah ! would aspire 


The breeze is still, the sea is calm, 


To swell the adoration of the lyre : 


And the whole scene combines to charm ; 


Source of all good ! oh, teach my voice to sing 


The flowers revive, this charming May, 


Thee, from whom Nature's genuine beauties 


Because it is thy natal day. 


spring ; 




Thee, God of truth, omnipotent and wise, 


The sky is blue, the day serene, 


Who saidst to Chaos, " let the earth arise." 


And only pleasure now is seen ; 


Author of the rich luxuriant year ! 


The rose, the pink, the tulip gay, 


Love, Truth, and Mercy in thy works appear : 


Combine to bless thy natal day. 


Within their orbs the planets dost Thou keep, 




And e'en hast limited the mighty deep. 




Oh ! could I number thy inspiring ways, 


A PRAYER, 


And wake the voice of animated praise ! 




Ah, no ! the theme shall swell a cherub's note ; 


WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF NINE. 


To Thee celestial hymns of rapture float. 


God ! my Father and my Friend, 


'Tis not for me in lowly strains to sing 


Ever thy blessings to me send ; 


Thee, God of mercy, — heaven's immortal King ! 


Let me have Virtue for my guide, 


Yet to that happiness I'd fain aspire — 


And Wisdom always at my side. 


Oh ! fill my heart with elevated fire : 


Thus cheerfully through life I'll go, 


With angel-songs an artless voice shall blend, 


Nor ever feel the sting of woe ; 


The grateful offering shall to Thee ascend. 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



Yes ! Thou wilt breathe a spirit o'er my lyre, 
And " fill my beating heart with sacred fire ! " 
And when to Thee my youth, my life, I've given, 
Raise me to join Eliza, 1 blest in Heaven. 



SHAKSPEARE. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN. 

[One of her earliest tastes was a passion for Shakspeare, 
which she read, as her choicest recreation, at six years old ; 
and in later days she would often refer to the hours of romance 
she had passed in a secret haunt of her own — a seat amongst 
the branches of an old apple-tree — where, revelling in the 
treasures of the cherished volume, she would become com- 
pletely absorbed in the imaginative world it revealed to her. 
The following lines, written at eleven years old, may be ad- 
duced as a proof of her juvenile enthusiasm. — Memoir of 
Mrs Hemans by her Sister, p. 6, 7.] 

I love to rove o'er history's page, 

Recall the hero and the sage ; 

Revive the actions of the dead, 

And memory of ages fled : 

Yet it yields me greater pleasure, 

To read the poet's pleasing measure. 

Led by Shakspeare, bard inspired, 

The bosom's energies are fired ; 

We learn to shed the generous tear, 

O'er poor Ophelia's sacred bier ; 

To love the merry moonlit scene, 

With fairy elves in valleys green ; 

Or, borne on fancy's heavenly wings, 

To listen while sweet Ariel sings. 

How sweet the "native woodnotes wild" 

Of him, the Muse's favourite child ! 

Of him whose magic lays impart 

Each various feeling to the heart ! 



TO MY BROTHER AND SISTER IN THE 
COUNTRY. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN. 

[At about the age of eleven, she passed a winter in London 
with her father and mother ; and a similar sojourn was re- 
peated in the following year, after which she never visited the 
metropolis. The contrast between the confinement of a town 
life, and the happy freedom of her own mountain home, was 
even then so distasteful to her, that the indulgences of plays 
and sights soon ceased to be cared for, and she longed to 
rejoin her younger brother and sister in their favourite rural 
haunts and amusements — the nuttery wood, the beloved 
apple-tree, the old arbour, with its swing, the post-office tree, 
in whose trunk a daily interchange of family letters was estab- 

1 A sister whom the author had lost. 



lished, the pool where fairy ships were launched (generally 
painted and decorated by herself,) and, dearer still, the fresh 
free ramble on the seashore, or the mountain expedition to 
the Signal Station, or the Roman Encampment. In one of 
her letters, the pleasure with which she looked forward to her 
return home was' thus expressed in rhyme. — Mem. p. 8, 9.] 

Happy soon we'll meet again, 

Free from sorrow, care, and pain ; 

Soon again we'll rise with dawn, 

To roam the verdant dewy lawn ; 

Soon the budding leaves we'll hail, 

Or wander through the well-known vale ; 

Or weave the smiling wreath of flowers ; 

And sport away the light-wing'd hours. 

Soon we'll run the agile race ; 

Soon, dear playmates, we'll embrace ; — 

Through the wheat-field or the grove, 

We'll hand in hand delighted rove ; 

Or, beneath some spreading oak, 

Ponder the instructive book ; 

Or view the ships that swiftly glide, 

Floating on the peaceful tide ; 

Or raise again the caroll'd lay ; 

Or join again in mirthful play; 

Or listen to the humming bees, 

As their murmurs swell the breeze ; 

Or seek the primrose where it springs ; 

Or chase the fly with painted wings ; 

Or talk beneath the arbour's shade ; 

Or mark the tender shooting blade : 

Or stray beside the babbling stream, 

When Luna sheds her placid beam ; 

Or gaze upon the glassy sea 

Happy, happy shall we be ! 



SONNET TO MY MOTHER. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF TWELVE. 

To thee, maternal guardian of my youth, 

I pour the genuine numbers free from art — 
The lays inspired by gratitude and truth ; 

For thou wilt prize the effusion of the heart. 
Oh ! be it mine, with sweet and pious care, 

To calm thy bosom in the hour of grief; 
With soothing tenderness to chase the tear, 

With fond endearments to impart relief : 
Be mine thy warm affection to repay 

With duteous love in thy declining hours ; 

My filial hand shall strew unfading flowers, 
Perennial roses, to adorn thy way : 
Still may thy grateful children round thee smile — 
Their pleasing care affliction shall beguile. 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



3 



SONNET. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. 

Tis sweet to think the spirits of the blest 

May hover round the virtuous man's repose ; 
And oft in visions animate his breast, 

And scenes of bright beatitude disclose. 
The ministers of Heaven, with pure control, 

May bid his sorrow and emotion cease, 
Inspire the pious fervour of his soul, 

And whisper to his bosom hallow'd peace. 
Ah, tender thought ! that oft with sweet relief 

May charm the bosom of a weeping friend, 
Beguile with magic power the tear of grief, 

And pensive pleasure with devotion blend ; 
While oft he fancies music, sweetly faint, 
The airy lay of some departed saint. 



RURAL WALKS. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. 

Oh ! may I ever pass my happy hours 

In Cambrian valleys and romantic bowers ; 

For every spot in sylvan beauty drest, 

And every landscape, charms my youthful breast. 

And much I love to hail the vernal morn, 

When flowers of spring the mossy seat adorn ; 

And sometimes through the lonely wood I stray, 

To cull the tender rosebuds in my way ; 

And seek in every wild secluded dell, 

The weeping cowslip and the azure bell ; 

With all the blossoms, fairer in the dew, 

To form the gay festoon of varied hue. 

And oft I seek the cultivated green, 

The fertile meadow, and the village scene ; 

Where rosy children sport around the cot, 

Or gather woodbine from the garden spot. 

And there I wander by the cheerful rill, 

That murmurs near the osiers and the mill ; 

To view the smiling peasants turn the hay, 

And listen to their pleasing festive lay. 

I love to loiter in the spreading grove, 

Or in the mountain scenery to rove; 

Where summits rise in awful grace around, 

With hoary moss and tufted verdure crown' d ; 

Where cliffs in solemn majesty are piled, 

" And frown upon the vale" with grandeur wild : 

And there I view the mouldering tower sublime, 

Array'd in all the blending shades of Time. 

The airy upland and the woodland green, 
The valley, and romantic mountain scene ; 



The lowly hermitage, or fair domain, 

The dell retired, or willow-shaded lane ; 

" And every spot in sylvan beauty drest, 

And every landscape, charms my youthful breast. 



SONNET. 



WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. 

[In 1808, a collection of her poems, which had long been 
regarded amongst her friends with a degree of admiration 
perhaps more partial than judicious, was submitted to the 
world, in the form (certainly an ill-advised one) of a quarto 
volume. Its appearance drew down the animadversions of 
some self-constituted arbiter of public taste, 1 and the young 
poetess was thus early initiated into the pains and perils 
attendant upon the career of an author ; — though it may here 
be observed, that, as far as criticism was concerned, this was 
at once the first and last time she was destined to meet with 
any thing like harshness or mortification. Though this unex- 
pected severity was felt bitterly for a few days, her buoyant 
spirit soon rose above it, and her effusions continued to be 
poured forth as spontaneously as the song of the skylark.] 



I love to hail the mild and balmy hour 

When evening spreads around her twilight veil; 
When dews descend on every languid flower, 

And sweet and tranquil is the summer gale. 
Then let me wander by the peaceful tide, 

While o'er the wave the breezes lightly play ; 
To hear the waters murmur as they glide, 

To mark the fading smile of closing day. 
There let me linger, blest in visions dear, 

Till the soft moonbeams tremble on the seas ; 
While melting sounds decay on fancy's ear, 

Of airy music floating on the breeze. 
For still when evening sheds the genial dews, 
That pensive hour is sacred to the muse. 



1 The criticism referred to, and which, considering the cir- 
cumstances under which the volume appeared, was certainly 
somewhat ungenerous, and quite uncalled for, ran as follows: 
— " We hear that these poems are the ' genuine productions 
of a young lady, written between the ages of eight and thir- 
teen years,' and we do not feel inclined to question the intel- 
ligence ; but although the fact may insure them an indulgent 
reception from all those who have ' children dear,' yet, when 
a little girl publishes a large quarto, we are disposed to 
examine before we admit her claims to public attention. 
Many of Miss Browne's compositions are extremely jejune. 
However, though Miss Browne's poems contain some errone- 
ous and some pitiable lines, we must praise the ' Reflections 
in a ruined Castle,' and the poetic strain in which they are 
delivered. The lines to ' Patriotism ' contain good thoughts 
and forcible images ; and if the youthful author were to con- 
tent herself for some years with reading instead of writing, 
we should open any future work from her pen with an expec- 
tation of pleasure, founded on our recollection of this publi- 
cation ; though we must, at the same time, observe, that 
premature talents are not always to be considered as signs of 
future excellence. The honeysuckle attains maturity before 
the oak." — Monthly Review, 1809. 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



ENGLAND AND SPAIN; OR, VALOUR 
AND PATRIOTISM. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. 

" His sword the brave man draws, 

And asks no omen but his country's cause."— Pope. 

[New sources of inspiration were now opening to her view. 
Birthday addresses, songs by the seashore, and invocations 
to fairies, were henceforth to be diversified with warlike 
themes ; and trumpets and banners now floated through the 
dreams in which birds and flowers had once reigned para- 
mount. Her two elder brothers had entered the army at an 
early age, and were both serving in the 23d Royal Welsh 
Fusiliers. One of them was now engaged in the Spanish 
campaign under Sir John Moore ; and a vivid imagination 
and enthusiastic affections being alike enlisted in the cause, 
her young mind was filled with glorious visions of British 
valour and Spanish patriotism. In her ardent view, the days 
of chivalry seemed to be restored, and the very names which 
were of daily occurrence in the despatches, were involun- 
tarily associated with the deeds of Roland and his Paladins, 
or of her own especial hero, " The Cid Ruy Diaz," the Cam- 
peador. Under the inspiration of these feelings, she composed 
a poem entitled " England and Spain," which was published 
and afterwards translated into Spanish. This cannot but be 
considered as a very remarkable production for a girl of four- 
teen ; lofty sentiments, correctness of language, and historical 
knowledge, being all strikingly displayed in it.— Memoir, 
p. 10, 11.] 

Too long have Tyranny and Power combined 
To sway, with iron sceptre, o'er mankind ; 
Long has Oppression worn th' imperial robe, 
And Rapine's sword has wasted half the globe ! 
O'er Europe's cultured realms, and climes afar, 
Triumphant Gaul has pour'd the tide of war : 
To her fair Austria veil'd the standard bright ; 
Ausonia's lovely plains have own'd her might ; 
While Prussia's eagle, never taught to yield, 
Forsook her towering height on Jena's field ! 

gallant Frederic ! could thy parted shade 
Have seen thy country vanquish'd and betray'd, 
How had thy soul indignant mourn'd her shame, 
Her sullied trophies, and her tarnish'd fame ! 
When Valour wept lamented Brunswick's doom, 
And nursed with tears the laurels on his tomb ; 
When Prussia, drooping o'er her hero's grave, 
Invoked his spirit to descend and save ; 
Then set her glories — then expired her sun, 
And fraud achieved e'en more than conquest won ! 

O'er peaceful realms, that smiled with plenty 

gay, 

Has desolation spread her ample sway ; 
Thy blast, Ruin ! on tremendous wings, 
Has proudly swept o'er empires, nations, kings. 



Thus the wild hurricane's impetuous force 
With dark destruction marks its whelming course, 
Despoils the woodland's pomp, the blooming plain, 
Death on its pinion, vengeance in its train ! 
— Rise, Freedom, rise ! and, breaking from thy 

trance, 
Wave the dread banner, seize the glittering lance ! 
With arm of might assert thy sacred cause, 
And call thy champions to defend thy laws ! 
How long shall tyrant power her throne main- 
tain? 
How long shall despots and usurpers reign ? 
Is honour's lofty soul for ever fled ! 
Is virtue lost 1 is martial ardour dead ? 
Is there no heart where worth and valour dwell, 
No patriot Wallace, no undaunted Tell ] 
Yes, Freedom ! yes ! thy sons, a noble band, 
Around thy banner, firm, exulting stand ; 
Once more, 'tis thine, invincible to wield 
The beamy spear and adamantine shield ! 
Again thy cheek with proud resentment glows, 
Again thy lion-glance appals thy foes ; 
Thy kindling eye-beam darts unconquer'd fires, 
Thy look sublime the warrior's heart inspires ; 
And, while to guard thy standard and thy right, 
Castilians rush, intrepid, to the fight, 
Lo ! Britain's generous host their aid supply, 
Resolved for thee to triumph or to die ; 
And Glory smiles to see Iberia's name 
Enroll'd with Albion's in the book of fame ! 

Illustrkms names ! still, still united beam, 
Be still the hero's boast, the poet's theme : 
So, when two radiant gems together shine, 
And in one wreath their lucid light combine ; 
Each, as it sparkles with transcendant rays, 
Adds to the lustre of its kindred blaze. 

Descend, Genius ! from thy orb descend ! 
Thy glowing thought, thy kindling spirit lend ! 
As Memnon's harp (so ancient fables say) 
With sweet vibration meets the morning ray, 
So let the chords thy heavenly presence own, 
And swell a louder note, a nobler tone ; 
Call from the sun, her burning throne on high, 
The seraph Ecstasy, with lightning eye ; 
Steal from the source of day empyreal fire, 
And breathe the soul of rapture o'er the lyre ! 

Hail, Albion ! hail, thou land of freedom's 
birth ! 
Pride of the main, and Phoenix of the earth ! 
Thou second Rome, where mercy, justice, dwell, 
Whose sons in wisdom as in arms excel ! 



ENGLAND AND SPAIN. 



Thine are the dauntless bands, like Spartans 

brave, 
Bold in the field, triumphant on the wave; 
In classic elegance and arts divine, 
To rival Athens' fairest palm is thine ; 
For taste and fancy from Hymettus fly, 
And richer bloom beneath thy varying sky, 
Where Science mounts in radiant car sublime 
To other worlds beyond the sphere of time I 
Hail, Albion, hail ! to thee has fate denied 
Peruvian mines and rich Hindostan's pride, 
The gems that Ormuz and Golconda boast, 
And all the wealth of Montezuma's coast : 
For thee no Parian marbles brightly shine, 
No glowing suns mature the blushing vine ; 
No light Arabian gales their wings expand, 
To waft Sabsean incense o'er the land ; 
No graceful cedars crown thy lofty hills, 
No trickling myrrh for thee its balm distils ; 
Not from thy trees the lucid amber flows, 
And far from thee the scented cassia blows : 
Yet fearless Commerce, pillar of thy throne, 
Makes all the wealth of foreign climes thy own ; 
From Lapland's shore to Afric's fervid reign, 
She bids thy ensigns float above the main ; 
Unfurls her streamers to the favouring gale, 
And shows to other worlds her daring sail : 
Then wafts their gold, their varied stores to thee, 
Queen of the trident ! empress of the sea ! 

For this thy noble sons have spread alarms, 
And bade the zones resound with Britain's arms ! 
Calpe's proud rock, and Syria's palmy shore, 
Have heard and trembled at their battle's roar ; 
The sacred waves of fertilising Nile 
Have seen the triumphs of the conquering isle ; 
For this, for this, the Samiel-blast of war 
Has roll'd o'er Vincent's cape and Trafalgar ! 
Victorious Rodney spread thy thunder's sound, 
And Nelson fell, with fame immortal crown' d — 
Blest if their perils and their blood could gain, 
To grace thy hand, the sceptre of the main ! 
The milder emblems of the virtues calm — 
The poet's verdant bay, the sage's palm — 
These in thy laurel's blooming foliage twine, 
And round thy brows a deathless wreath com- 
bine : 
Not Mincio's banks, nor Meles' classic tide, 
Are hallow'd more than Avon's haunted side ; 
Nor is thy Thames a less inspiring theme 
Than pure Ilissus, or than Tiber's stream. 

Bright in the annals of th' impartial page, 
Britannia's heroes live from age to age ! 



From ancient days, when dwelt her savage race, 
Her painted natives, foremost in the chase, 
Free from all cares for luxury or gain, 
Lords of the wood and monarchs of the plain ; 
To these Augustan days, when social arts 
Refine and meliorate her manly hearts ; 
From doubtful Arthur — hero of romance, 
King of the circled board, the spear, the lance- 
To those whose recent trophies grace her shield, 
The gallant victors of Vimeira's field ; 
Still have her warriors borne th' unfading crown, 
And made the British flag the ensign of renown. 

Spirit of Alfred ! patriot soul sublime ! 
Thou morning-star of error's darkest time ! 
Prince of the Lion-heart ! whose arm in fight, 
On Syria's plains repell'd Saladin's might ! 
Edward ! for bright heroic deeds revered, 
By Cressy's fame to Britain still endear'd ! 
Triumphant Henry ! thou, whose valour proud, 
The lofty plume of crested Gallia bow'd ! 
Look down, look down, exalted shades ! and 

view 
Your Albion still to freedom's banner true ! 
Behold the land, ennobled by your fame, 
Supreme in glory, and of spotless name : 
And, as the pyramid indignant rears 
Its awful head, and mocks the waste of years ; 
See her secure in pride of virtue tower, 
While prostrate nations kiss the rod of power ! 

Lo ! where her pennons, waving high, aspire, 
Bold Victory hovers near, "with eyes of fire !" 
While Lusitania hails, with just applause, 
The brave defenders of her injured cause; 
Bids the full song, the note of triumph rise, 
And swells th' exulting peean to the skies ! 

And they, who late with anguish, hard to tell, 
Breathed to their cherish'd realms a sad farewell ! 
Who, as the vessel bore them o'er the tide, 
Still fondly Hnger'd on its deck, and sigh'd ; 
Gazed on the shore, till tears obscured their sight, 
And the blue distance melted into light — 
The Royal exiles, forced by Gallia's hate 
To fly for refuge in a foreign state — 
They, soon returning o'er the western main, 
Ere long may view their clime beloved again : 
And as the blazing pillar led the host 
Of faithful Israel o'er the desert coast, 
So may Britannia guide the noble band 
O'er the wild ocean to their native land. 
glorious isle ! — sovereign of the waves ! 
Thine are the sons who " never will be slaves ! " 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



See them once more, with ardent hearts advance, 

And rend the laurels of insulting France; 

To brave Castile their potent aid supply, 

And wave, Freedom ! wave thy sword on high ! 

Is there no bard of heavenly power possess'd 
To thrill, to rouse, to animate the breast 1 
Like Shakspeare o'er the secret mind to sway, 
And call each wayward passion to obey 1 ? 
Is there no bard, imbued with hallow'd fire, 
To wake the chords of Ossian's magic lyre ; 
"Whose numbers breathing all his flame divine, 
The patriot's name to ages might consign 1 
Rise, Inspiration ! rise ! be this thy theme, 
And mount, like Uriel, on the golden beam ! 

Oh, could my muse on seraph pinion spring, 
And sweep with rapture's hand the trembling 

string ! 
Could she the bosom energies control, 
And pour impassion'd fervour o'er the soul ! 
Oh, could she strike the harp to Milton given, 
Brought by a cherub from th' empyrean heaven ! 
Ah, fruitless wish ! ah, prayer preferr'd in vain, 
For her — the humblest of the woodland train ; 
Yet shall her feeble voice essay to raise 
The hymn of liberty, the song of praise ! 

Iberian bands ! whose noble ardour glows 
To pour confusion on oppressive foes ; 
Intrepid spirits, hail ! 'tis yours to feel 
The hero's fire, the freeman's godlike zeal ! 
Not to secure dominion's boundless reign, 
Ye wave the flag of conquest o'er the slain; 
No cruel rapine leads you to the war, 
Nor mad ambition, whirl'd in crimson car. 
No, brave Castilians ! yours a nobler end, 
Your land, your laws, your monarch to defend ! 
For these, for these, your valiant legions rear 
The floating standard, and the lofty spear ! 
The fearless lover wields the conquering sword, 
Fired by the image of the maid adored ! 
His best-beloved, his fondest ties, to aid, 
The father's hand unsheaths the glittering blade ! 
For each, for all, for ev'ry sacred right, 
The daring patriot mingles in the fight ! 
And e'en if love or friendship fail to warm, 
His country's name alone can nerve his dauntless 
arm ! 

He bleeds ! he falls ! his death-bed is the field ! 
His dirge the trumpet, and his bier the shield ! 
His closing eyes the beam of valour speak, 
The flush of ardour lingers on his cheek ; 



Serene he lifts to heaven those closing eyes, 
Then for his country breathes a prayer — and 

dies ! 
Oh ! ever hallow'd be his verdant grave — 
There let the laurel spread, the cypress wave ! 
Thou, lovely Spring ! bestow, to grace his tomb, 
Thy sweetest fragrance, and thy earliest bloom ; 
There let the tears of heaven descend in balm, 
There let the poet consecrate his palm ! 
Let honour, pity, bless the holy ground, 
And shades of sainted heroes watch around ! 
'Twas thus, while Glory rung his thrilling knell, 
Thy chief, Thebes ! at Mantinea fell ; 
Smiled undismay'd within the arms of death, 
While Victory, weeping nigh, received his breath ! 

thou, the sovereign of the noble soul ! 
Thou source of energies beyond control ! 
Queen of the lofty thought, the generous deed, 
Whose sons unconquer'd fight, undaunted bleed, — 
Inspiring Liberty ! thy worshipp'd name 
The warm enthusiast kindles to a flame ; 
Thy charms inspire him to achievements high, 
Thy look of heaven, thy voice of harmony. 
More blest with thee to tread perennial snows, 
Where ne'er a flower expands, a zephyr blows ; 
Where Winter, binding nature in his chain, 
In frost-work palace holds perpetual reign ; 
Than, far from thee, with frolic step to rove 
The green savannas and the spicy grove ; 
Scent the rich balm of India's perfumed gales, 
In citron-woods and aromatic vales : 
For oh ! fair Liberty, when thou art near, 
Elysium blossoms in the desert drear ! 

Where'er thy smile its magic power bestows, 
There arts and taste expand, there fancy glows ; 
The sacred lyre its wild enchantment gives, 
And every chord to swelling transport lives ; 
There ardent Genius bids the pencil trace 
The soul of beauty, and the lines of grace ; 
With bold Promethean hand, the canvass warms, 
And calls from stone expression's breathing forms. 
Thus, where the fruitful Nile o'erflows its bound, 
Its genial waves diffuse abundance round, 
Bid Ceres laugh o'er waste and sterile sands, 
And rich profusion clothe deserted lands. 

Immortal Freedom ! daughter of the skies ! 
To thee shall Britain's grateful incense rise. 
Ne'er, goddess ! ne'er forsake thy favourite isle, 
Still be thy Albion brighten'd with thy smile ! 
Long had thy spirit slept in dead repose, 
While proudly triumph' d thine insulting foes ; 



ENGLAND AND SPAIN. 



Yet, though a cloud may veil Apollo's light, 
Soon, with celestial beam, he breaks to sight : 
Once more we see thy kindling soul return, 
Thy vestal-flame with added radiance burn ; 
Lo ! in Iberian hearts thine ardour lives, 
Lo ! in Iberian hearts thy spark revives ! 

Proceed, proceed, ye firm undaunted band ! 
Still sure to conquer, if combined ye stand. 
Though myriads flashing in the eye of day 
Stream'd o'er the smiling land in long array, 
Though tyrant Asia pour'd unnumber'd foes, 
Triumphant still the arm of Greece arose ; — 
For every state in sacred union stood, 
Strong to repel invasion's whelming flood ; 
Each heart was glowing in the general cause, 
Each hand prepared to guard their hallow'd 

laws; 
Athenian valour join'd Laconia's might, 
And but contended to be first in fight ; 
! From rank to rank the warm contagion ran, 
I And Hope and Freedom led the flaming van. 
! Then Persia's monarch mourn'd his glories lost, 
As wild confusion wing'd his flying host; 
Then Attic bards the hymn of victory sung, 
The Grecian harp to notes exulting rung ! 
Then Sculpture bade the Parian stone record 
The high achievements of the conquering sword. 
Thus, brave Castilians ! thus may bright renown 
And fair success your valiant efforts crown ! 

Genius of chivalry ! whose early days 
Tradition still recounts in artless lays; 
Whose faded splendours fancy oft recalls — 
The floating banners and the lofty halls, 
The gallant feats thy festivals display'd, 
The tilt, the tournament, the long crusade; 
Whose ancient pride Eomance delights to hail, 
In fabling numbers, or heroic tale : 
Those times are fled, when stern thy castles 

frown'd, 
Their stately towers with feudal grandeur crown'd ; 
Those times are fled, when fair Iberia's clime 
Beheld thy Gothic reign, thy pomp sublime ; 
And all thy glories, all thy deeds of yore, 
Live but in legends wild, and poet's lore. 
Lo ! where thy silent harp neglected lies, 
Light o'er its chords the murmuring zephyr sighs; 
Thy solemn courts, where once the minstrel sung, 
The choral voice of mirth and music rung; 
Now, with the ivy clad, forsaken, lone, 
Hear but the breeze and echo to its moan : 
Thy lonely towers deserted fall away, 
Thy broken shield is mouldering in decay. 



Yet, though thy transient pageantries are gone, 

Like fairy visions, bright, yet swiftly flown; 

Genius of chivalry ! thy noble train, 

Thy firm, exalted virtues yet remain ! 

Fair truth, array'd in robes of spotless white, 

Her eye a sunbeam, and her zone of light; 

Warm emulation, with aspiring aim, 

Still darting forward to the wreath of fame ; 

And purest love, that waves his torch divine, 

At awful honour's consecrated shrine; 

Ardour, with eagle-wing and fiery glance; 

And generous courage, resting on his lance ; 

And loyalty, by perils unsubdued; 

Untainted faith, unshaken fortitude ; 

And patriot energy, with heart of flame — 

These, in Iberia's sons are yet the same ! 

These from remotest days their souls have fired, 

" Nerved every arm," and every breast inspired ! 

When Moorish bands their suffering land possess'd, 

And fierce oppression rear'd her giant crest, 

The wealthy caliphs on Cordova's throne 

In eastern gems and purple splendour shone ; 

Theirs was the proud magnificence that vied 

With stately Bagdat's oriental pride ; 

Theirs were the courts in regal pomp array'd, 

Where arts and luxury their charms display'd ; 

'Twas theirs to rear the Zehrar's costly towers, 

Its fairy-palace and enchanted bowers ; 

There all Arabian fiction e'er could tell 

Of potent genii or of wizard spell — 

All that a poet's dream could picture bright, 

One sweet Elysium, charm'd the wondering sight ! 

Too fair, too rich, for work of mortal hand, 

It seem'd an Eden from Armida's wand ! 

Yet vain their pride, their wealth, and radiant 
state, 
When freedom waved on high the sword of fate ! 
When brave Eamiro bade the despots fear, 
Stern retribution frowning on his spear ; 
And fierce Almanzor, after many a fight, 
O'erwhelm'd with shame, confess'd the Christian's 
might. 

In later times the gallant Cid arose, 
Burning with zeal against his country's foes ; 
His victor-arm Alphonso's throne maintain'd, 
His laureate brows the wreath of conquest gain'd ! 
And still his deeds Castilian bards rehearse, 
Inspiring theme of patriotic verse ! 
High in the temple of recording fame, 
Iberia points to great Gonsalvo's name ! 
Victorious chief! whose valour still defied 
The arms of Gaul, and bow'd her crested pride ; 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



With splendid trophies graced his sovereign's 

throne, 
And bade Granada's realms his prowess own. 
Nor were his deeds thy only boast, Spain ! 
In mighty Ferdinand's illustrious reign ; 
'Twas then thy glorious Pilot spread the sail, 
Unfurl'd his flag before the eastern gale ; 
Bold, sanguine, fearless, ventured to explore 
Seas unexplored, and worlds unknown before. 
Fair science guided o'er the liquid realm, 
Sweet hope, exulting, steer'd the daring helm ; 
While on the mast, with ardour-flashing eye, 
Courageous enterprise still hover'd nigh : 
The hoary genius of th' Atlantic main 
Saw man invade his wide majestic reign — 
His empire, yet by mortal unsubdued, 
The throne, the world of awful solitude. 
And e'en when shipwreck seem'd to rear his 

form, 
And dark destruction menaced in the storm ; 
In every shape when giant-peril rose, 
To daunt his spirit and his course oppose ; 
O'er ev'ry heart when terror sway'd alone, 
And hope forsook each bosom but his own : 
Moved by no dangers, by no fears repell'd, 
His glorious track the gallant sailor held ; 
Attentive still to mark the sea-birds lave, 
Or high in air their snowy pinions wave. 
Thus princely Jason, launching from the steep, 
With dauntless prow explored th' untravell'd 

deep; 
Thus, at the helm, Ulysses' watchful sight 
View'd ev'ry star and planetary light. 
Sublime Columbus ! when, at length descried, 
The long-sought land arose above the tide, 
How every heart with exultation glow'd, 
How from each eye the tear of transport flow'd ! 
Not wilder joy the sons of Israel knew 
When Canaan's fertile plains appear'd in view. 
Then rose the choral anthem on the breeze, 
Then martial music floated o'er the seas ; 
Their waving streamers to the sun display'd, 
In all the pride of warlike pomp array'd. 
Advancing nearer still, the ardent band 
Hail'd the glad shore, and bless'd the stranger 

land; 
Admired its palmy groves and prospects fair, 
With rapture breathed its pure ambrosial air : 
Then crowded round its free and simple race, 
Amazement pictured wild on every face ; 
Who deem'd that beings of celestial birth, 
Sprung from the sun, descended to the earth. 
Then first another world, another sky, 
Beheld Iberia's banner blaze on high ! 



Still prouder glories beam on history's page, 
Imperial Charles ! to mark thy prosperous age : 
Those golden days of arts and fancy bright, 
When Science pour'd her mild, refulgent light; 
When Painting bade the glowing canvass breathe 
Creative Sculpture claim'd the living wreath ; 
When roved the Muses in Ausonian bowers, 
Weaving immortal crowns of fairest flowers ; 
When angel-truth dispersed, with beam divine, 
The clouds that veil'd religion's hallow'd shrine 
Those golden days beheld Iberia tower 
High on the pyramid of fame and power ; 
Vain all the efforts of her numerous foes, 
Her might, superior still, triumphant rose. 
Thus on proud Lebanon's exalted brow, 
The cedar, frowning o'er the plains below, 
Though storms assail, its regal pomp to rend, 
Majestic, still aspires, disdaining e'er to bend ! 

When Gallia pour'd to Pavia's trophied plain, 
Her youthful knights, a bold, impetuous train ; 
When, after many a toil and danger past, 
The fatal morn of conflict rose at last ; 
That morning saw her glittering host combine, 
And form in close array the threat'ning line ; 
Fire in each eye, and force in ev'ry arm, 
With hope exulting, and with ardour warm ; 
Saw to the gale their streaming ensigns play, 
Their armour flashing to the beam of day ; 
Their gen'rous chargers panting, spurn the ground, 
Eoused by the trumpet's animating sound ; 
And heard in air their warlike music float, 
The martial pipe, the drum's inspiring note ! 

Pale set the sun — the shades of evening fell, 
The mournful night-wind rung their funeral 

knell ; 
And the same day beheld their warriors dead, 
Their sovereign captive, and their glories fled ! 
Fled, like the lightning's evanescent fire, 
Bright, blazing, dreadful — only to expire ! 
Then, then, while prostrate Gaul confess'd her 

might, 
Iberia's planet shed meridian light ! 
Nor less, on famed St Quintin's deathful day, 
Castilian spirit bore the prize away — 
Laurels that still their verdure shall retain, 
And trophies beaming high in glory's fane ! 
And lo ! her heroes, warm with kindred flame, 
Still proudly emulate their fathers' fame ; 
Still with the soul of patriot- valour glow, 
Still rush impetuous to repel the foe ; 
Wave the bright falchion, lift the beamy spear, 
And bid oppressive Gallia learn to fear ! 



ENGLAND AND SPAIN. 



9 



Be theirs, be theirs unfading honour's crown, 
The living amaranths of bright renown ! 
Be theirs th' inspiring tribute of applause, 
Due to the champions of their country's cause ! 
Be theirs the purest bliss that virtue loves, 
The joy when conscience whispers and approves ! 
When every heart is fired, each pulse beats high, 
To fight, to bleed, to fall, for liberty ; 
When every hand is dauntless and prepared 
The sacred charter of mankind to guard ; 
When Britain's valiant sons their aid unite, 
Fervent and glowing still for freedom's right, 
Bid ancient enmities for ever cease, 
And ancient wrongs forgotten sleep in peace. 
When, firmly leagued, they join the patriot band, 
Can venal slaves their conquering arms withstand? 
Can fame refuse their gallant deeds to bless 1 
Can victory fail to crown them with success 1 
Look down, Heaven ! the righteous cause 

maintain, 
Defend the injured, and avenge the slain ! 
Despot of France ! destroyer of mankind ! 
What spectre-cares must haunt thy sleepless 

mind ! 
Oh ! if at midnight round thy regal bed, 
When soothing visions fly thine aching head ; 
When sleep denies thy anxious cares to calm, 
And lull thy senses in his opiate balm ; 
Invoked by guilt, if airy phantoms rise, 
And murder'd victims bleed before thine eyes; 
Loud let them thunder in thy troubled ear, 
"Tyrant ! the hour, th' avenging hour is near !" 
It is, it is ! thy star withdraws its ray — 
Soon will its parting lustre fade away; 
Soon will Cimmerian shades obscure its light, 
And veil thy splendours in eternal night ! 
Oh ! when accusing conscience wakes thy soul 
With awful terrors and with dread control, 
Bids threat'ning forms, appalling, round thee stand, 
And summons all her visionary band; 
Calls up the parted shadows of the dead, 
And whispers, peace and happiness are fled ; 
E'en at the time of silence and of rest, 
Paints the dire poniard menacing thy breast ; 
Is then thy cheek with guilt and horror pale 1 
Then dost thou tremble, does thy spirit fail 1 
And wouldst thou yet by added crimes provoke 
The bolt of heaven to launch the fatal stroke 1 
Bereave a nation of its rights revered, 
Of all to morals sacred and endear'd 1 ? 
And shall they tamely liberty resign, 
The soul of life, the source of bliss divine 1 
Canst thou, supreme destroyer ! hope to bind, 
In chains of adamant, the noble mind ? 



Go, bid the rolling orbs thy mandate hear — 
Go, stay the lightning in its wingd career ! 
No, tyrant ! no ! thy utmost force is vain 
The patriot-arm of freedom to restrain. 
Then bid thy subject-bands in armour shine, 
Then bid thy legions all their power combine ! 
Yet couldst thou summon myriads at command, 
Did boundless realms obey thy sceptred hand, 
E'en then her soul thy lawless might would spurn, 
E'en then, with kindling fire, with indignation 
burn ! 

Ye sons of Albion ! first in danger's field, 
The sword of Britain and of truth to wield ! 
Still prompt the injured to defend and save, 
Appal the despot, and assist the brave; 
Who now intrepid lift the generous blade, 
The cause of Justice and Castile to aid ! 
Ye sons of Albion ! by your country's name, 
Her crown of glory, her unsullied fame ; 
Oh ! by the shades of Cressy's martial dead, 
By warrior-bands at Agincourt who bled ; 
By honours gain'd on Blenheim's fatal plain, 
By those in Victory's arms at Minden slain ; 
By the bright laurels Wolfe immortal won, 
Undaunted spirit ! valour's favourite son ! 
By Albion's thousand, thousand deeds sublime, 
Renown'd from zone to zone, from clime to clime ; 
Ye British heroes ! may your trophies raise 
A deathless monument to future days ! 
Oh ! may your courage still triumphant rise, 
Exalt the "lion banner" to the skies ! 
Transcend the fairest names in history's page, 
The brightest actions of a former age ; 
The reign of Freedom let your arms restore, 
And bid oppression fall — to rise no more ! 
Then soon returning to your native isle, 
May love and beauty hail you with their smile ; 
For you may conquest weave th' undying wreath, 
And fame and glory's voice the song of rapture 
breathe ! 

Ah ! when shall mad ambition cease to rage 1 
Ah ! when shall war his demon- wrath assuage 1 
When, when, supplanting discord's iron reign, 
Shall mercy wave her olive-wand again ? 
Not till the despot's dread career is closed, 
And might restrain'd and tyranny deposed ! 

Return, sweet Peace, ethereal form benign ! 
Fair blue-eyed seraph ! balmy power divine ! 
Descend once more ! thy hallow'd blessings bring, 
Wave thy bright locks, and spread thy downy wing ! 
Luxuriant plenty, laughing in thy train, 
Shall crown with glowing stores the desert-plain : 



10 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



Young smiling Hope, attendant on thy way, 
Shall gild thy path with mild celestial ray. 
Descend once more, thou daughter of the sky ! 
Cheer every heart, and brighten every eye ; 
Justice, thy harbinger, before thee send, 
Thy myrtle-sceptre o'er the globe extend : 
Thy cherub-look again shall soothe mankind, 
Thy cherub-hand the wounds of discord bind ; 
Thy smile of heaven shall every muse inspire, 
To thee the bard shall strike the silver lyre. 
Descend once more ! to bid the world rejoice — 
Let nations hail thee with exulting voice, 
Around thy shrine with purest incense throng, 
Weave the fresh palm, and swell the choral song ! 
Then shall the shepherd's flute, the woodland 

reed, 
The martial clarion and the drum succeed ; 
Again shall bloom Arcadia's fairest flowers, 
And music warble in Idalian bowers. 
Where war and carnage blew the blast of death, 
The gale shall whisper with Favonian breath ; 
And golden Ceres bless the festive swain, 
Where the wild combat redden'd o'er the plain. 
These are thy blessings, fair benignant maid ! 
Return, return, in vest of light array 'd ! 
Let angel-forms and floating sylphids bear 
Thy car of sapphire through the realms of air : 
With accents milder than iEolian lays, 
When o'er the harp the fanning zephyr plays, 
Be thine to charm the raging world to rest, 
Diffusing round the heaven that glows within thy 

breast ! 

Thou ! whose fiat lulls the storm asleep ! 
Thou, at whose nod subsides the rolling deep ! 
Whose awful word restrains the whirlwind's force, 
And stays the thunder in its vengeful course ; 
Fountain of life ! Omnipotent Supreme ! 
Robed in perfection ! crown'd with glory's beam ! 
Oh ! send on earth thy consecrated dove, 
To bear the sacred olive from above ; 
Restore again the blest, the halcyon time, 
The festal harmony of nature's prime ! 
Bid truth and justice once again appear, 
And spread their sunshine o'er this mundane 

sphere ; 
Bright in their path, let wreaths unfading bloom, 
Transcendant light their hallow'd fane illume ; 
Bid war and anarchy for ever cease, 
And kindred seraphs rear the shrine of Peace; 
Brothers once more, let men her empire own, 
And realms and monarchs bend before the throne, 
While circling rays of angel-mercy shed 
Eternal haloes round her sainted head ! 



THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS, 

AND OTHER POEMS. 

[In 1812, another and much smaller volume, entitled The 
Domestic Affections, and other Poems, was given to the world — 
the last that was to appear with the name of Felicia Browne ; 
for, in the summer of the same year, its author exchanged 
that appellation for the one under which she has become so 
much more generally known. Captain Hemans had re- 
turned to Wales in the preceding year, when the acquain- 
tance was renewed which had begun so long before at Gwrych ; 
and as the sentiments then mutually awakened continued 
unaltered, no further opposition was made to a union, on 
which (however little in accordance with the dictates of 
worldly prudence) the happiness of both parties seemed so 
entirely to depend. — Memoir, p. 24.] 

THE SILVER LOCKS. 

ADDRESSED TO AN AGED FRIEND. 

Though youth may boast the curls that flow 

In sunny waves of auburn glow ; 
As graceful on thy hoary head 
Has Time the robe of honour spread, 
And there, oh ! softly, softly shed 
His wreath of snow ! 

As frost-work on the trees display'd 
When weeping Flora leaves the shade, 

E'en more than Flora, charms the sight ; 

E'en so thy locks of purest white 

Survive, in age's frost-work bright, 
Youth's vernal rose decay'd ! 

To grace the nymph whose tresses play 

Light on the sportive breeze of May, 
Let other bards the garland twine, 
Where sweets of every hue combine ; 
Those locks revered, that silvery shine, 
Invite my lay ! 

Less white the summer- cloud sublime, 
Less white the winter's fringing rime ; 

Nor do Belinda's lovelier seem 

(A Poet's blest immortal theme) 

Than thine, which wear the moonlight beam 
Of reverend Time ! 

Long may the graceful honours smile, 

Like moss on some declining pile ; 
much revered ! may filial care 
Around thee, duteous, long repair, 
Thy joys with tender bliss to share, . 
Thy pains beguile ! 



THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. 11 


Long, long, ye snowy ringlets, wave ! 


And joys of heaven would thrill thy heart 


Long, long, your much-loved beauty save ! 


To bid one bosom-grief depart, 


May bliss your latest evening crown, 


One tear, one sorrow cease ! 


Disarm life's winter of its frown, 




And soft, ye hoary hairs, go down 


Then, oh ! may Heaven, that loves to bless, 


In gladness to the grave ! 


Bestow the power to cheer distress ; 




Make thee its minister below, 


And as the parting beams of day 


To light the cloudy path of woe ; 


On mountain-snows reflected play, 


To visit the deserted cell, 


And tints of roseate lustre shed ; 


Where indigence is doom'd to dwell ; 


Thus, on the snow that crowns thy head, 


To raise, when drooping to the earth, 


May j°y> with evening planet, shed 


The blossoms of neglected worth ; 


His mildest ray ! 


And round, with liberal hand, dispense 


August 18, 1809. 


The sunshine of beneficence ! 




But ah ! if Fate should still deny 




Delights like these, too rich and high ; 


TO MY MOTHER. 


If grief and pain thy steps assail, 


If e'er from human bliss or woe 


In life's remote and wintry vale ; 


I feel the sympathetic glow ; 


Then, as the wild iEolian lyre 


If e'er my heart has learn'd to know 


Complains with soft entrancing number, 


The generous wish or prayer ; 


When the lone storm awakes the wire, 


Who sow'd the germ with tender hand 1 


And bids enchantment cease to slumber ; 


Who mark'd its infant leaves expand 1 — 


So filial love, with soothing voice, 


My mother's fostering care. 


E'en then shall teach thee to rejoice ; 


And if one flower of charms refined 


E'en then shall sweeter, milder sound, 


May grace the garden of my mind, 


When sorrow's tempest raves around ; 


'Twas she who nursed it there : 


While dark misfortune's gales destroy, 


She loved to cherish and adorn 


The frail mimosa-buds of hope and joy ! 


Each blossom of the soil ; 




To banish every weed and thorn 





That oft opposed her toil ! 






TO MY YOUNGER BROTHER, 


And oh ! if e'er I sigh'd to claim 






ON HIS RETURN FROM SPAIN, AFTER THE FATAL RETREAT 


The palm, the living palm of fame, 


UNDER SIR JOHN MOORE, AND THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA. 


The glowing wreath of praise ; 




If e'er I wish'd the glittering stores 


Though dark are the prospects and heavy the hours, 


That Fortune on her favourite pours ; 


Though life is a desert, and cheerless the way ; 


'Twas but that wealth and fame, if mine, 


Yet still shall affection adorn it with flowers, 


Eound thee with streaming rays might shine, 


Whose fragrance shall never decay ! 


And gild thy sun-bright days ! 






And lo ! to embrace thee, my Brother ! she flies, 


Yet not that splendour, pomp, and power 


With artless delight, that no words can bespeak ; 


Might then irradiate every hour ; 


With a sunbeam of transport illuming her eyes, 


For these, my mother ! well I know, 


With a smile and a glow on her cheek ! 


On thee no raptures could bestow ; — 




But could thy bounty, warm and kind, 


From the trophies of war, from the spear and the 


Be, like thy wishes, unconjined, 


shield, 


And fall as manna from the skies, 


From scenes of destruction, from perils unblest ; 


And bid a train of blessings rise, 


Oh ! welcome again, to the grove and the field, 


Diffusing joy and peace ; 


To the vale of retirement and rest. 


The tear-drop, grateful, pure, and bright, 




For thee would beam with softer light 


Then warble, sweet muse ! with the lyre and the 


Than all the diamond's crystal rays, 


voice, 


Than all the emerald's lucid blaze ; 


Oh ! gay be the measure and sportive the strain ; 

1 



12 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



For light is my heart, and my spirits rejoice 

To meet thee, my Brother ! again. 
When the heroes of Albion, still valiant and true, 

Were bleeding, were falling, with victory crown'd, 
How often would fancy present to my view 

The horrors that waited thee round ! 

How constant, how fervent, how pure was my 
prayer, 
That Heaven would protect thee from danger 
and harm ; 
That angels of mercy would shield thee with care, 
In the heat of the combat's alarm ! 

How sad and how often descended the tear, 
(Ah, long shall remembrance the image retain !) 

How mournful the sigh, when I trembled with 
fear 
I might never behold thee again ! 

But the prayer was accepted, the sorrow is o'er, 
And the tear-drop is fled, like the dew on the 
rose; 
Thy dangers, our tears, have endear'd thee the 
more, 
And my bosom with tenderness glows. 

And oh ! when the dreams, the enchantments of 
youth, 
Bright and transient, have fled like the rain- 
bow away ; 
My affection for thee, still unfading in truth, 
Shall never, oh ! never decay ! 

No time can impair it, no change can destroy, 
Whate'er be the lot I am destined to share ; 

It will smile in the sunshine of hope and of joy, 
And beam through the cloud of despair ! 



TO MY ELDEST BROTHER 

(WITH THE BRITISH ARMY IN PORTUGAL.) 

How many a day, in various hues array' d, 
Bright with gay sunshine, or eclipsed with shade, 
How many an hour, on silent wing is past, 
my loved Brother ! since we saw thee last ! 
Since then has childhood ripen'd into youth, 
And fancy's dreams have fled from sober truth ; 
Her splendid fabrics melting into air, 
As sage experience waved the wand of care ! 
Yet still thine absence wakes the tender sigh, 
And the tear trembles in affection's eye ! 



When shall we meet again 1 — with glowing ray, 
Heart-soothing hope illumes some future day ; 
Checks the sad thought, beguiles the starting 

tear, 
And sings benignly still — that day is near ! 
She, with bright eye, and soul-bewitching voice, 
Wins us to smile, inspires us to rejoice ; 
Tells that the hour approaches, to restore 
Our cherish'd wanderer to his home once more ; 
Where sacred ties his manly worth endear, 
To faith still true, affection still sincere ! 
Then the past woes, the future's dubious lot, 
In that blest meeting shall be all forgot ! 
And joy's full radiance gild that sun-bright hour, 
Though all around th' impending storm should 

lower. 

Now distant far, amidst the intrepid host, 
Albion's firm sons, on Lusitania's coast, 
(That gallant band, in countless dangers tried, 
Where glory's pole-star beams their constant 

guide,) 
Say, do thy thoughts, my Brother, fondly stray 
To Cambria's vales and mountains far away ? 
Does fancy oft in busy day-dreams roam, 
And paint the greeting that awaits at home 1 
Does memory's pencil oft, in mellowing hue, 
Dear social scenes, departed joys renew; 
In softer tints delighting to retrace 
Each tender image and each well-known face ? 
Yes, wanderer ! yes ! thy spirit flies to those 
Whose love, unalter'd, warm and faithful glows. 

Oh ! could that love, through life's eventful 

hours, 
Illume thy scenes and strew thy path with 

flowers ! 
Perennial joy should harmonise thy breast, 
No struggle rend thee, and no cares molest ! 
But though our tenderness can but bestow 
The wish, the hope, the prayer, averting woe, 
Still shall it live, with pure, unclouded flame, 
In storms, in sunshine, far and near — the 

same ! 
Still dwell enthroned within th' unvarying heart, 
And, firm and vital, but with life depart ! 
Bronwylfa, Feb. 8, 1811. 



LINES 

WRITTEN IN THE MEMOIRS OF ELIZABETH SMITH. 

thou ! whose pure, exalted mind, 
Lives in this record, fair and bright ; 



THE RUIN AND ITS FLOWERS. 



13 



thou ! whose blameless life combined 
Soft female charms, and grace refined, 
With science and with light ! 
Celestial maid ! whose spirit soar'd 

Beyond this vale of tears — 
Whose clear, enlighten'd eye explored 
The lore of years ! 

Daughter of Heaven ! if here, e'en here, 

The wing of towering thought was thine ; 
[f, on this dim and mundane sphere, 
Fair truth illumed thy bright career, 
With morning-star divine ; 
How must thy bless'd ethereal soul 
Now kindle in her noon-tide ray, 
And hail, unfetter'd by control, 
The Fount of Day ! 

E'en now, perhaps, thy seraph eyes, 

Undimm'd by doubt, nor veil'd by fear, 
Behold a chain of wonders rise — 
Gaze on the noon-beam of the skies, 

Transcendant, pure, and clear ! 
E'en now, the fair, the good, the true, 

From mortal sight conceal'd, 
Bless in one blaze thy raptured view, 
In light reveal'd ! 

If here the lore of distant time, 

And learning's flowers, were all thine own 
How must thy mind ascend sublime, 
Matured in heaven's empyreal clime, 

To light's unclouded throne ! 
Perhaps o'en now thy kindling glance 

Each orb of living fire explores, 
Darts o'er creation's wide expanse, 
Admires — adores ! 

Oh ! if that lightning-eye surveys 
This dark and sublunary plain ; 

How must the wreath of human praise 

Fade, wither, vanish, in thy gaze, 
So dim, so pale, so vain ! 

How, like a faint and shadowy dream, 
Must quiver learning's brightest ray ; 

While on thine eyes, with lucid stream, 

The sun of glory pours his beam, 
Perfection's day ! 



[The reader may contrast these early lines of Mrs Hemans 
with the maturer ones on the same subject by Professor Wil- 
son. — Poems, vol. ii. p. 140-9.] 



THE RUIN" AND ITS FLOWERS. 

Sweets of the wild ! that breathe and bloom 
On this lone tower, this ivied wall, 

Lend to the gale a rich perfume, 
And grace the ruin in its fall. 

Though doom'd, remote from careless eye, 

To smile, to flourish, and to die 
In solitude sublime, 

Oh ! ever may the spring renew, 

Your balmy scent and glowing hue, 
To deck the robe of time ! 

Breathe, fragrance ! breathe ! enrich the air, 
Though wasted on its wing unknown ! 

Blow, flowerets ! blow ! though vainly fair, 
Neglected and alone ! 

These flowers that long withstood the blast, 

These mossy towers, are mouldering fast, 
While Flora's children stay — 

To mantle o'er the lonely pile, 

To gild Destruction with a smile, 
And beautify Decay ! 

Sweets of the wild ! uncultured blowing, 
Neglected in luxuriance glowing ; 
From the dark ruins frowning near, 
Your charms in brighter tints appear, 

And richer blush assume ; 
You smile with softer beauty crown'd, 
Whilst all is desolate around, 

Like sunshine on a tomb ! 

Thou hoary pile, majestic still, 

Memento of departed fame ! 
While roving o'er the moss-clad hill, 

I ponder on thine ancient name ! 

Here Grandeur, Beauty, Valour sleep, 
That here, so oft, have shone supreme ; 

While Glory, Honour, Fancy, weep 
That vanish'd is the golden dream ! 

Where are the banners, waving proud, 
To kiss the summer -gale of even — 

All purple as the morning-cloud, 

All streaming to the winds of heaven 1 

Where is the harp, by rapture strung 
To melting song or martial story 1 

Where are the lays the minstrel sung 
To loveliness or glory ] 



14 JUVENILE POEMS. 


Lorn Echo of these mouldering walls, 


Lend to the gale a rich perfume, 


To thee no festal measure calls ; 


And grace the ruin in its fall ! 


No music through the desert halls, 




Awakes thee to rejoice ! 


Thus round Misfortune's holy head, 


How still thy sleep ! as death profound— 


Would Pity wreaths of honour spread , 


As if, within this lonely round, 


Like you, thus blooming on this lonely pile, 


A step — a note — a tvhisperd sound 


She seeks Despair, with heart-reviving smile ! 


Had ne'er aroused thy voice ! 




Thou hear'st the zephyr murmuring, dying, 





Thou hear'st the foliage waving, sighing ; 


CHRISTMAS CAROL. 


But ne'er again shall harp or song, 




These dark deserted courts along, 


Fair Gratitude ! in strain sublime, 


Disturb thy calm repose. 


Swell high to heaven thy tuneful zeal ; 


The harp is broke, the song is fled, 


And, hailing this auspicious time, 


The voice is hush'd, the bard is dead ; 


Kneel, Adoration ! kneel ! 


And never shall thy tones repeat 




Or lofty strain or carol sweet 


CHORUS. 


With plaintive close ! 


For lo ! the day, th' immortal day, 




When Mercy's full, benignant ray 


Proud Castle ! though the days are flown 


Chased every gathering cloud away, 


When once thy towers in glory shone ; 


And pour'd the noon of light ! 


When music through thy turrets rung, 


Rapture ! be kindling, mounting, glowing, 


When banners o'er thy ramparts hung, 


While from thine eye the tear is flowing, 


Though 'midst thine arches, frowning lone, 


Pure, warm, and bright ! 


Stern Desolation rear his throne ; 




And Silence, deep and awful, reign 


'Twas on this day — oh, love divine ! — 


Where echo'd once the choral strain ; 


The Orient Star's effulgence rose ; 


Yet oft, dark ruin ! lingering here, 


Then waked the Morn, whose eye benign 


The Muse will hail thee with a tear ; 


Shall never, never close ! 


Here when the moonlight, quivering, beams, 




And through the fringing ivy streams, 


CHORUS. 


And softens every shade sublime, 


Messiah ! be thy name adored, 


And mellows every tint of Time — 


Eternal, high, redeeming Lord ! 


Oh ! here shall Contemplation love, 


By grateful worlds be anthems pour'd — 


Unseen and undisturb'd, to rove ; 


Emanuel ! Prince of Peace ! 


And bending o'er some mossy tomb, 


This day, from heaven's empyreal dwelling, 


Where Valour sleeps or Beauties bloom, 


Harp, lyre, and voice, in concert swelling, 


Shall weep for Glory's transient day 


Bade discord cease ! 


And Grandeur's evanescent ray ; 




And listening to the swelling blast, 


Wake the loud pgean, tune the voice, 


Shall wake the Spirit of the Past — 


Children of heaven and sons of earth \ 


Call up the forms of ages fled, 


Seraphs and men ! exult, rejoice, 


Of warriors and of minstrels dead, 


To bless the Saviour's birth ! 


Who sought the field, who struck the lyre, 




With all Ambition's kindling fire ! 


CHORUS. 




Devotion ! light thy purest fire ! 


Nor wilt thou, Spring ! refuse to breathe 


Transport ! on cherub wing aspire ! 


Soft odours on this desert air ; 


Praise ! wake to Him thy golden lyre, 


Eefuse to twine thine earliest wreath, 


Strike every thrilling chord ! 


And fringe these towers with garlands fair ! 


While, at the Ark of Mercy kneeling, 




We own thy grace, reviving, healing, 


Sweets of the wild, oh ! ever bloom 


Redeemer ! Lord ! 


Unheeded on this ivied wall ! 





THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. 



15 



THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. 

Whence are those tranquil joys in mercy given, 
To light the wilderness with beams of heaven 1 
To soothe our cares, and through the cloud diffuse 
Their temper'd sunshine and celestial hues ? 
Those pure delights, ordain'd on life to throw 
Gleams of the bliss ethereal natures know 1 
Say, do they grace Ambition's regal throne, 
When kneeling myriads call the world his own ] 
Or dwell with Luxury, in th' enchanted bowers 
Where taste and wealth exert creative powers ] 

Favour'd of heaven ! Genius ! are they thine, 
When round thy brow the wreaths of glory shine ; 
While rapture gazes on thy radiant way, 
Midst the bright realms of clear and mental day 1 
No ! sacred joys ! 'tis yours to dwell enshrined, 
Most fondly cherish'd, in the purest mind ; 
To twine with flowers those loved, endearing ties, 
On earth so sweet — so perfect in the skies ! 

Nursed in the lap of solitude and shade, 
The violet smiles, embosom'd in the glade ; 
There sheds her spirit on the lonely gale, 
Gem of seclusion ! treasure of the vale ! 
Thus, far retired from life's tumultuous road, 
Domestic Bliss has fixed her calm abode 
Where hallow'd Innocence and sweet Repose 
May strew her shadowy path with many a rose. 
As, when dread thunder shakes the troubled sky, 
The cherub. Infancy, can close its eye, 
And sweetly smile, unconscious of a tear, 
While viewless angels wave their pinions near ; 
Thus, while around the storms of Discord roll, 
Borne on resistless wing from pole to pole, 
While War's red lightnings desolate the ball, 
And thrones and empires in destruction fall ; 
Then calm as evening on the silvery wave, 
When the wind slumbers in the ocean cave, 
She dwells unruffled, in her bower of rest, 
Rev empire Home ! — her throne, Affection's breast ! 

For her, sweet Nature wears her loveliest blooms, 
And softer sunshine every scene illumes. 
When Spring awakes the spirit of the breeze, 
Whose light wing undulates the sleeping seas ; 
When Summer, waving her creative wand, 
Bids verdure smile, and glowing life expand ; 
Or Autumn's pencil sheds, with magic trace, 
O'er fading loveliness, a moonlight grace ; 
Oh ! still for her, through Nature's boundless reign, 
No charm is lost, no beauty blooms in vain ; 



While mental peace, o'er every prospect bright, 
Throws mellowing tints and harmonising light ! 
Lo ! borne on clouds, in rushing might sublime, 
Stern Winter, bursting from the polar clime, 
Triumphant waves his signal-torch on high, 
The blood-red meteor of the northern sky ! 
And high through darkness rears his giant-form, 
His throne the billow, and his flag the storm ! 
Yet then, when bloom and sunshine are no more, 
And the wild surges foam along the shore, 
Domestic Bliss, thy heaven is still serene, 
Thy star unclouded, and thy myrtle green ! 
Thy fane of rest no raging storms invade — 
Sweet peace is thine, the seraph of the shade ! 
Clear through the day, her light around thee 

glows, 
And gilds the midnight of thy deep repose ! 
— Hail, sacred Home ! where soft Affection's hand 
With flowers of Eden twines her magic band ! 
Where pure and bright the social ardours rise, 
Concentiing all their holiest energies ! — 
When wasting toil has dimm'd the vital flame, 
And every power deserts the sinking frame, 
Exhausted nature still from sleep implores 
The charm that lulls, the manna that restores ! 
Thus, when oppress'd with rude, tumultuous cares, 
To thee, sweet Home ! the fainting mind repairs ; 
Still to thy breast, a wearied pilgrim, flies, 
Her ark of refuge from uncertain skies ! 

Bower of repose ! when, torn from all we love, 
Through toil we struggle, or through distance rove; 
To thee we turn, still faithful, from afar — 
Thee, our bright vista ! thee, our magnet-star ! 
And from the martial field, the troubled sea, 
Unfetter'd thought still roves to bliss and thee ! 

When ocean-sounds in awful slumber die, 
No wave to murmur, and no gale to sigh ; 
Wide o'er the world when Peace and Midnight reign, 
And the moon trembles on the sleeping main ; 
At that still hour, the sailor wakes to keep, 
Midst the dead calm, the vigil of the deep ! 
No gleaming shores his dim horizon bound, 
All heaven — and sea — and solitude — around ! 
Then, from the lonely deck, the silent helm, 
From the wide grandeur of the shadowy realm, 
Still homeward borne, his fancy unconfined, 
Leaving the worlds of ocean far behind, 
Wings like a meteor-flash her swift career, 
To the loved scenes, so distant, and so dear ! 

Lo ! the rude whirlwind rushes from its cave, 
And Danger frowns — the monarch of the wave ! 



1G 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



Lo ! rocks and storms the striving bark repel, 
And Death and Shipwreck ride the foaming swell ! 

Child of the ocean ! is thy bier the surge, 
Thy grave the billow, and the wind thy dirge 1 
Yes ! thy long toil, thy weary conflict o'er, 
No storm shall wake, no perils rouse thee more ! 
Yet, in that solemn hour, that awful strife, 
The struggling agony for death or life, 
E'en then thy mind, embittering every pain, 
Eetraced the image so beloved — in vain ! 
Still to sweet Home thy last regrets were true, 
Life's parting sigh — the murmur of adieu ! 

Can war's dread scenes the hallow'd ties efface, 
Each tender thought, each fond remembrance 

chase ? 
Can fields of carnage, days of toil, destroy 
The loved impression of domestic joy ] 

Ye daylight dreams ! that cheer the soldier's 

breast, 
In hostile climes, with spells benign and blest , 
Soothe his brave heart, and shed your glowing ray 
O'er the long march through Desolation's way ; 
Oh ! still ye bear him from th' ensanguined plain, 
Armour's bright flash, and Victory's choral strain, 
To that loved Home where pure affection glows, 
That shrine of bliss ! asylum of repose ! 
When all is hush'd — the rage of combat past, 
And no dread war-note swells the moaning blast; 
When the warm throb of many a heart is o'er, 
And many an eye is closed to wake no more ; 
Lull'd by the night-wind, pillow'd on the ground, 
(The dewy deathbed of his comrades, round !) 
While o'er the slain the tears of midnight weep, 
Faint with fatigue, he sinks in slumbers deep ! 
E'en then, soft visions, hovering round, portray 
The cherish'd forms that o'er his bosom sway ; 
He sees fond transport light each beaming face, 
Meets the warm tear-drop and the long embrace ! 
While the sweet welcome vibrates through his 

heart, 
" Hail, weary soldier ! — never more to part ! " 

And lo ! at last, released from every toil, 
He comes ! — the wanderer views his native soil ! 
Then the bright raptures words can never speak 
Flash in his eye and mantle o'er his cheek ! 
Then Love and Friendship, whose unceasing 

prayer 
Implored for him each guardian-spirit's care ; 
Who, for his fate, through sorrow's lingering year, 
Had proved each thrilling pulse of hope and fear; 



In that blest moment, all the past forget — 
Hours of suspense and vigils of regret ! 

And oh ! for him, the child of rude alarms, 
Eear'd by stern danger in the school of arms ! 
How sweet to change the war-song's pealing note 
For woodland-sounds in summer air that float ! 
Through vales of peace, o'er mountain wilds to roam, 
And breathe his native gales, that whisper — 'Home !' 

Hail, sweet endearments of domestic ties, 
Charms of existence ! angel sympathies ! 
Though Pleasure smile, a soft Circassian queen ! 
And guide her votaries through a fairy scene, 
Where sylphid forms beguile their vernal hours 
With mirth and music in Arcadian bowers ; 
Though gazing nations hail the fiery car 
That bears the Son of Conquest from afar, 
While Fame's loud psean bids his heart rejoice, 
And every life-pulse vibrates to her voice ; — 
Yet from your source alone, in mazes bright, 
Flows the full current of serene delight ! 

On Freedom's wing, that every wild explores, 
Through realms of space, th' aspiring eagle soars ! 
Darts o'er the clouds, exulting to admire, 
Meridian glory — on her throne of fire ! 
Bird of the Sun ! his keen unwearied gaze 
Hails the full noon, and triumphs in the blaze ; 
But soon, descending from his height sublime, 
Day's burning fount, and light's empyreal clime, 
Once more he speeds to joys more calmly blest, 
Midst the dear inmates of his lonely nest ! 

Thus Genius, mounting on his bright career 
Through the wide regions of the mental sphere, 
And proudly waving in his gifted hand, 
O'er Fancy's worlds, Invention's plastic wand, 
Fearless and firm, with lightning-eye surveys 
The clearest heaven of intellectual rays ! 
Yet, on his course though loftiest hopes attend, 
And kindling raptures aid him to ascend, 
(While in his mind, with high-born grandeur 

fraught, 
Dilate the noblest energies of thought ;) 
Still, from the bliss, ethereal and refined, 
Which crowns the soarings of triumphant mind, 
At length he flies, to that serene retreat, 
Where calm and pure the mild affections meet ; 
Embosom'd there, to feel and to impart 
The softer pleasures of the social heart ! 

Ah ! weep for those, deserted and forlorn, 
From every tie by fate relentless torn ; 



THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. 



17 



See, on the barren coast, the lonely isle, 
Ilark'd with no step, uncheer'd by human smile, 
Heart-sick and faint the ship-wreck'd wanderer 

stand, 
Raise the dim eye, and lift the suppliant hand ! 
Explore with fruitless gaze the billowy main, 
And weep — and pray — and linger— but in vain ! 

Thence, roving wild through many a depth of 
shade, 
Where voice ne'er echo'd, footstep never stray'd, 
He fondly seeks, o'er cliffs and deserts rude, 
Haunts of mankind midst realms of solitude ! 
A.nd pauses oft, and sadly hears alone 
The wood's deep sigh, the surge's distant moan ! 
All else is hush'd ! so silent, so profound, 
As if some viewless power, presiding round, 
With mystic spell, unbroken by a breath, 
Had spread for ages the repose of death ! 
Ah ! still the wanderer, by the boundless deep, 
Lives but to watch — and watches but to weep ! 
He sees no sail in faint perspective rise, 
His the dread loneliness of sea and skies ! 
Far from his cherish'd friends, his native shore, 
Banish'd from being — to return no more ; 
There must he die ! — within that circling wave, 
That lonely isle — his prison and his grave ! 

Lo ! through the waste, the wilderness of snows, 
With fainting step, Siberia's exile goes ! 
Homeless and sad, o'er many a polar wild, 
Where beam, or flower, or verdure never smiled ; 
Where frost and silence hold their despot-reign, 
And bind existence in eternal chain ! 
Child of the desert ! pilgrim of the gloom ! 
Dark is the path which leads thee to the tomb ! 
While on thy faded cheek the arctic air 
Congeals the bitter tear-drop of despair ! 
Yet not that fate condemns thy closing day 
In that stern clime to shed its parting ray ; 
Not that fair nature's loveliness and light 
No more shall beam enchantment on thy sight ; 
Ah ! not for this — far, far beyond relief, 
Deep in thy bosom dwells the hopeless grief; 
But that no friend of kindred heart is there, 
Thy woes to mitigate, thy toils to share ; 
That no mild soother fondly shall assuage 
The stormy trials of thy lingering age ; 
No smile of tenderness, with angel power, 
Lull the dread pangs of dissolution's hour ; 
For this alone, despair, a withering guest, 
Sits on thy brow, and cankers in thy breast ! 
Yes ! there, e'en there, in that tremendous clime, 
Where desert grandeur frowns in pomp sublime ; 



Where winter triumphs, through the polar night, 
In all his wild magnificence of might ; 
E'en there, affection's hallow'd spell might pour 
The light of heaven around th' inclement shore ! 
And, like the vales with gloom and sunshine 

graced, 
That smile, by circling Pyrenees embraced, 
Teach the pure heart with vital fires to glow, 
E'en 'midst the world of solitude and snow ! 
The halcyon's charm, thus dreaming fictions feign, 
With mystic power could tranquillise the main ; 
Bid the loud wind, the mountain billow sleep, 
And peace and silence brood upon the deep ! 

And thus, Affection, can thy voice compose 
The stormy tide of passions and of woes ; 
Bid every throb of wild emotion cease, 
And lull misfortune in the arms of peace ! 

Oh ! mark yon drooping form, of aged mien, 
Wan, yet resign'd, and hopeless, yet serene ! 
Long ere victorious time had sought to chase 
The bloom, the smile, that once illumed his face, 
That faded eye was dimm'd with many a care, 
Those waving locks were silver'd by despair ! 
Yet filial love can pour the sovereign balm, 
Assuage his pangs, his wounded spirit calm ! 
He, a sad emigrant ! condemn'd to roam 
In life's pale autumn from his ruin'd home, 
Has borne the shock of Peril's darkest wave, 
Where joy — and hope — and fortune — found a 

grave ! 
'Twas his to see Destruction's fiercest band 
Rush, like a Typhon, on his native land, 
And roll triumphant on their blasted way, 
In fire and blood, the deluge of dismay ! 
Unequal combat raged on many a plain, 
And patriot-valour waved the sword in vain ! 
Ah ! gallant exile ! nobly, long, he bled, 
Long braved the tempest gathering o'er his head ! 
Till all was lost ! and horror's darken'd eye 
Roused the stern spirit of despair to die ! 

Ah ! gallant exile ! in the storm that roll'd 
Far o'er his country, rushing uncontroll'd, 
The flowers that graced his path with loveliest 

bloom, 
Torn by the blast, were scatter'd on the tomb ! 
When carnage burst, exulting in the strife, 
The bosom ties that bound his soul to life, 
Yet one was spared ! and she, whose filial smile 
Can soothe his wanderings and his tears beguile, 
E'en then could temper, with divine relief, 
The wild delirium of unbounded grief; 



18 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



And, whispering peace, conceal with duteous art 
Her own deep sorrows in her inmost heart ! 
And now, though time, subduing every trace, 
Has mellow'd all, he never can erase ; 
Oft will the wanderer's tears in silence flow, 
Still sadly faithful to remember'd woe ! 
Then she, who feels a father's pang alone, 
(Still fondly struggling to suppress her own,) 
With anxious tenderness is ever nigh, 
To chase the image that awakes the sigh ! 
Her angel-voice his fainting soul can raise 
To brighter visions of celestial days ! 
And speak of realms, where Virtue's wing shall soar 
On eagle-plume — to wonder and adore ; 
And friends, divided here, shall meet at last, 
Unite their kindred souls — and smile on all the 
past ! 

Yes ! we may hope that nature's deathless ties, 
Renew'd, refined, shall triumph in the skies ! 
Heart-soothing thought ! whose loved, consoling 

powers 
With seraph-dreams can gild reflection's hours, 
Oh ! still be near, and brightening through the 

gloom, 
Beam and ascend ! the day-star of the tomb ! 
And smile for those, in sternest ordeals proved, 
Those lonely hearts, bereft of all they loved. 

Lo ! by the couch where pain and chill disease 
In every vein the ebbing life-blood freeze ; 
Where youth is taught, by stealing, slow decay, 
Life's closing lesson — in its dawning day ; 
Where beauty's rose is withering ere its prime, 
Unchanged by sorrow and unsoil'd by time ; 
There, bending still, with fix'd and sleepless eye, 
There, from her child, the mother learns to die ; 
Explores, with fearful gaze, each mournful trace 
Of lingering sickness in the faded face ; 
Through the sad night, when eveiy hope is fled, 
Keeps her lone vigil by the sufferer's bed ; 
And starts each morn, as deeper marks declare 
The spoiler's hand — the blight of death is there ! 
He comes ! now feebly in the exhausted frame, 
Slow, languid, quivering, burns the vital flame ; 
From the glazed eye-ball sheds its parting ray — 
Dim, transient spark, that fluttering fades away ! 
Faint beats the hovering pulse, the trembling heart ; 
Yet fond existence lingers ere she part ! 

'Tis past ! the struggle and the pang are o'er, 
And life shall throb with agony no more ; 
While o'er the wasted form, the features pale, 
Death's awful shadows throw their silvery veil. 



Departed spirit ! on this earthly sphere 

Though poignant suffering mark'd thy short 

career, 
Still could maternal love beguile thy woes, 
And hush thy sighs — an angel of repose ! 

But who may charm her sleepless pang to rest, 
Or draw the thorn that rankles in her breast 1 
And, while she bends in silence o'er thy bier, 
Assuage the grief, too heart-sick for a tear 1 
Visions of hope in loveliest hues array'd, 
Fair scenes of bliss by fancy's hand portray'd ! 
And were ye doom'd with false, illusive smile, 
With flattering promise, to enchant awhile 1 
And are ye vanish'd, never to return, 
Set in the darkness of the mouldering urn ? 
Will no bright hour departed joys restore 1 ? 
Shall the sad parent meet her child no more 1 
Behold no more the soul-illumined face, 
The expressive smile, the animated grace ! 
Must the fair blossom, wither'd in the tomb, 
Revive no more in loveliness and bloom 1 
Descend, blest faith ! dispel the hopeless care, 
And chase the gathering phantoms of despair ; 
Tell that the flower, transplanted in its morn, 
Enjoys bright Eden, freed from every thorn ; 
Expands to milder suns, and softer dews, 
The full perfection of immortal hues ; 
Tell, that when mounting to her native skies, 
By death released, the parent spirit flies ; 
There shall the child, in anguish mourn'd so long, 
With rapture hail her midst the cherub throng, 
And guide her pinion on exulting flight, 
Through glory's boundless realms, and worlds of 
living light. 

Ye gentle spirits of departed friends ! 
If e'er on earth your buoyant wing descends ; 
If, with benignant care, ye linger near, 
To guard the objects in existence dear; 
If, hovering o'er, ethereal band ! ye view 
The tender sorrows, to your memory true ; 
Oh ! in the musing hour, at midnight deep, 
While for your loss affection wakes to weep ; 
While every sound in hallow'd stillness lies, 
But the low murmur of her plaintive sighs ; 
Oh ! then, amidst that holy calm be near, 
Breathe your light whisper softly in her ear ; 
With secret spells her wounded mind compose, 
And chase the faithful tear — for you that flows : 
Be near — when moonlight spreads the charm you 

loved 
O'er scenes where once your earthly footstep 
roved. 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



19 



Then, while she wanders o'er the sparkling dew, 
Through glens and wood-paths, once endear'd 

by you, 
And fondly lingers in your favourite bowers, 
And pauses oft, recalling former hours ; 
Then wave your pinion o'er each well-known vale, 
Float in the moonbeam, sigh upon the gale ; 
Bid your wild symphonies remotely swell, 
Borne by the summer- wind from grot and dell ; 
And touch your viewless harps, and soothe her soul 
With soft enchantments and divine control ! 
Be near, sweet guardians ! watch her sacred rest, 
When Slumber folds her in his magic vest ; 
Around her, smiling, let your forms arise, 
Return'd in dreams, to bless her mental eyes ; 
Efface the memory of your last farewell — 
Of glowing joys, of radiant prospects tell , 
The sweet communion of the past renew, 
Reviving former scenes, array'd in softer hue. 

Be near when death, in virtue's brightest hour, 
Calls up each pang, and summons all his power ; 
Oh ! then, transcending Fancy's loveliest dream, 
Then let your forms unveil'd around her beam ; 
Then waft the vision of unclouded light, 
A burst of glory, on her closing sight ; 
Wake from the harp of heaven th' immortal strain, 
To hush the final agonies of pain ; 
With rapture's flame the parting soul illume, 
And smile triumphant through the shadowy gloom ! 
Oh ! still be near, when, darting into day, 
Th' exulting spirit leaves her bonds of clay ; 
Be yours to guide her fluttering wings on high 
O'er many a world, ascending to the sky ; 
There let your presence, once her earthly joy, 
Though dimm'd with tears and clouded with alloy, 
Now form her bliss on that celestial shore 
Where death shall sever kindred hearts no more. 

Yes ! in the noon of that Elysian clime, 
Beyond the sphere of anguish, death, or time ; 
Where mind's bright eye, with renovated fire, 
Shall beam on glories never to expire ; 
Oh ! there th' illumined soul may fondly trust, 
More pure, more perfect, rising from the dust, 
Those mild affections, whose consoling light 
Sheds the soft moonbeam on terrestrial night, 
Sublimed, ennobled, shall for ever glow, 
Exalting rapture — not assuaging woe ! 



TO MR EDWARDS, THE HARPER OF 
CONWAY. 

[Some of the happiest days the young poetess ever passed 
were during occasional visits to some friends at Conway, where 
the charms of the scenery, combining all that is most beauti- 
ful in wood, water, and ruin, are sufficient to inspire the most 
prosaic temperament with a certain degree of enthusiasm ; 
and it may therefore well be supposed how fervently a soul 
constituted like hers would worship Nature at so fitting a 
shrine. With that happy versatility which was at all times a 
leading characteristic of her mind, she would now enter with 
child-like playfulness into the enjoyments of a mountain 
scramble, or a pic-nic water party, the gayest of the merry 
band, of whom some are now, like herself, laid low, some far 
away in foreign lands, some changed by sorrow, and all by 
time; and then, in graver mood, dream away hours of pen- 
sive contemplation amidst the gray ruins of that noblest of 
Welsh castles, standing, as it then did, in solitary grandeur, 
unapproached by bridge or causeway, flingin its broad shadow 
across the ribu^ary waves which washed its regal walls. These 
lovely scenes never ceased to retain their hold over the imagi- 
nation of her whose youthful muse had so often celebrated 
their praises. Her peculiar admiration of Mrs Joanna 
Baillie's play of Ethwald was always pleasingly associated 
with the recollection of her having first read it amidst the 
ruins of Conway Castle. At Conway, too, she first made 
acquaintance with the lively and graphic Chronicles of the 
chivalrous Froissart, whose inspiring pages never lost their 
place in her favour. Her own little poem, " The Ruin and 
its Flowers," which will be found amongst the earlier pieces 
in the present collection, was written on an excursion to the 
old fortress of Dyganwy, the remains of which are situated 
on a bold promontory near the entrance of the river Conway ; 
and whose ivied walls, now fast mouldering into oblivion, once 
bore their part bravely in the defence of Wales; and are 
further endeared to the lovers of song and tradition as having 
echoed the complaints of the captive Elphin, and resounded 
to the harp of Taliesin. A scarcely degenerate representative 
of that gifted bard 1 had, at the time now alluded to, his 
appropriate dwelling-place at Conway ; but his strains have 
long been silenced, and there now remain few, indeed, on 
whom the Druidical mantle has fallen so worthily. In the 
days when his playing was heard by one so fitted to enjoy its 
originality and beauty, 

" The minstrel was infirm and old ; " 
but his inspiration had not yet forsaken him ; and the follow 
ing lines (written in 1811) will give an idea of the magic 
power he still knew how to exercise over the feelings of his 
auditors.] 

Minstrel ! whose gifted hand can bring 
Life, rapture, soul, from every string ; 
And wake, like bards of former time, 
The spirit of the harp sublime ; — 
Oh ! still prolong the varying strain ! 
Oh ! touch th' enchanted chords again ! 

i Mr Edwards, the Harper of Conway, as he was generally 
called, had been blind from his birth, and was endowed with 
that extraordinary musical genius by which persons suffering 
under such a visitation are not unfrequently indemnified. 
From the respectability of his circumstances, he was not 



20 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



Thine is the charm, suspending care, 
The heavenly swell, the dying close, 
The cadence melting into air, 
That lulls each passion to repose ; 
While transport, lost in silence near, 
Breathes all her language in a tear. 

Exult, Cambria ! — now no more 
With sighs thy slaughter'd bards deplore : 
What though Plinlimmon's misty brow • 
And Mona's woods be silent now, 
Yet can thy Conway boast a strain 
Unrivall'd in thy proudest reign. 

For Genius, with divine control, 
Wakes the bold chord neglected long, 
And pours Expression's glowing soul 
O'er the wild Harp, renown'd in song ; 
And Inspiration, hovering round, 
Swells the full energies of sound. 

Now Grandeur, pealing in the tone, 
Could rouse the warrior's kindling fire, 
And now, 'tis like the breeze's moan, 
That murmurs o'er th' Eolian lyre : 
As if some sylph, with viewless wing, 
Were sighing o'er the magic string. 

Long, long, fair Conway ! boast the skill 
That soothes, inspires, commands, at will ! 
And oh ! while rapture hails the lay, 
Far distant be the closing day, 
When Genius, Taste, again shall weep, 
And Cambria's Harp lie hush'd in sleep ! 

EPITAPH ON MR W , 

A CELEBRATED MINERALOGIST. 1 

Stop, passenger ! a wondrous tale to list- 
Here lies a famous Mineralogist. 

called upon to exercise his talents with any view to remuner- 
ation. He played to delight himself and others; and the 
innocent complacency with which he enjoyed the ecstasies 
called forth by his skill, and the degree of appreciation with 
which he regarded himself, as in a manner consecrated, by 
being made the depositary of a direct gift from Heaven, were 
as far as possible removed from any of the common modifica- 
tions of vanity or self-conceit. 

1 " Whilst on the subject of Conway, it may not be amiss 
to introduce two little pieces of a very different character from 
the foregoing, [Lines to Mr Edward the Harper,] which 
were written at the same place, three or four years afterwards, 
and will serve as a proof of that versatility of talent before 
alluded to. As may easily be supposed, they were never in- 
tended for publication, but were merely ajeu d' 'esprit of the 
moment, in good-humoured raillery of the indefatigable zeal 
and perseverance of one of the party in his geological re- 
searches." — Memoir, p. 20. 



Famous indeed ! such traces of his power, 
He's left from Penmaenbach to Penmaenmawr, 
Such caves, and chasms, and fissures in the rocks, 
His works resemble those of earthquake shocks ; 
And future ages very much may wonder 
What mighty giant rent the hills asunder, 
Or whether Lucifer himself had ne'er 
Gone with his crew to play at foot-ball there. 

His fossils, flints, and spars, of every hue, 
With him, good reader, here he buried too — 
Sweet specimens ! which, toiling to obtain, 
He split huge cliffs, like so much wood, in twain. 
We knew, so great the fuss he made about them, 
Alive or dead, he ne'er would rest without them; 
So, to secure soft slumber to his bones, 
We paved his grave with all his favourite stones. 
His much-loved hammer's resting by his side ; 
Each hand contains a shell-fish petrified : 
His mouth a piece of pudding-stone incloses, 
And at his feet a lump of coal reposes : 
Sure he was born beneath some lucky planet! — 
His very coffin-plate is made of granite. 

Weep not, good reader ! he is truly blest 
Amidst chalcedony and quartz to rest : 
Weep not for him ! but envied be his doom, 
Whose tomb, though small, for all he loved had 

room : 
And, ye rocks ! — schist, gneiss, whate'er ye be, 
Ye varied strata ! — names too hard for me — 
Sing, " Oh, be joyful ! " for your direst foe 
By death's fell hammer is at length laid low. 

Ne'er on your spoils again shall W riot. 

Clear up your cloudy brows, and rest in quiet — 
He sleeps — no longer planning hostile actions, 
As cold as any of his petrifactions ; 
Enshrined in specimens of every hue, 
Too tranquil e'en to dream, ye rocks, of you. 

EPITAPH 

ON THE HAMMER OF THE AFORESAlp MINERALOGIST. 

Heke in the dust, its strange adventures o'er, 
A hammer rests, that ne'er knew rest before. 
Released from toil, it slumbers by the side 
Of one who oft its temper sorely tried ; 
No day e'er pass'd, but in some desperate strife 
He risk'd the faithful hammer's limbs and life : 
Now laying siege to some old limestone wall, 
Some rock now battering, proof to cannon-ball ; 
Now scaling heights like Alps or Pyrenees, 
Perhaps a flint, perhaps a slate to seize ; 
But, if a piece of copper met his eyes, 
He'd mount a precipice that touch'd the skies, 



JUVENILE POEMS. 



21 



And bring down lumps so precious, and so many, 
I'm sure they almost would have made — a penny ! 
Think, when such deeds as these were daily done, 
What fearful risks this hammer must have run. 
And, to say truth, its praise deserves to shine 
In lays more lofty and more famed than mine : 
Oh ! that in strains which ne'er should be forgot, 
Its deeds were blazon'd forth by Walter Scott ! 
Then should its name with his be closely link'd, 
And live till every mineral were extinct. 
Rise, epic bards ! be yours the ample field — 

Bid W 's hammer match Achilles' shield : 

As for my muse, the chaos of her brain, 
I search for specimens of wit in vain ; 
Then let me cease ignoble rhymes to stammer, 
And seek some theme less arduous than the ham- 
mer ; 
Remembering well, " what perils do environ " 
Woman or " man that meddles with cold iron." 



PROLOGUE TO THE POOR GENTLEMAN, 

as intended to be performed by the officers of the 
34th regiment at clonmel.i 

Enter Captain George Browne, in the character of 
Corporal Foss. 

To-night, kind friends, at your tribunal here, 
Stands " The Poor Gentleman," with many a fear ; 
Since well he knows, whoe'er may judge his cause, 
That Poverty's no title to applause. 
Genius or Wit, pray, who'll admire or quote, 
If all their drapery be a threadbare coat 1 
Who, in a world where all is bought and sold, 
Minds a man's worth — except his worth in gold 1 
Who'll greet poor Merit if she lacks a dinner ! 
Hence, starving saint, but welcome, wealthy sinner ! 
Away with Poverty ! let none receive her, 
She bears contagion as a plague or fever ; 
" Bony, and gaunt, and grim " — like jaundiced eyes, 
Discolouring all within her sphere that lies. 
" Poor Gentleman ! " and by poor soldiers, too ! 
Oh, matchless impudence ! without a sous ! 
In scenes, in actors poor, and what far worse is, 
With heads, perhaps, as empty as their purses, 
How shall they dare at such a bar appear 1 
What are their tactics and manoeuvres here 1 

While thoughts like these come rushing o'er 
our mind, 
Oh ! may we still indulgence hope to find ! 
Brave sons of Erin ! whose distinguished name 
Shines with such brilliance in the page of Fame, 

i These verses were written about the same time as the pre- 
ceding humorous epitaphs. 



And you, fair daughters of the Emerald Isle ! 
View our weak efforts with approving smile ! 
School'd in rough camps, and still disdaining art, 
111 can the soldier act a borrow'd part ; 
The march, the skirmish, in this warlike age, 
Are his rehearsals, and the field his stage ; 
His theatre is found in every land, 
Where wave the ensigns of a hostile band : 
Place him in danger's front — he recks not where — 
Be your own Wellington his prompter there, 
And on that stage he trusts, with fearful mien, 
He'll act his part in glory's tragic scene. 
Yet here, though friends are gaily marshall'd 

round, 
And from bright eyes alone he dreads a wound, 
Here, though in ambush no sharpshooter's wile 
Aims at his breast, save hid in beauty's smile ; 
Though all unused to pause, to doubt, to fear, 
Yet his heart sinks, his courage fails him here. 
No scenic pomp to him its aid supplies, 
No stage effect of glittering pageantries : 
No, to your kindness he must look alone 
To realise the hope he dares not own ; 
And trusts, since here he meets no cynic eye, 
His wish to please may claim indemnity. 

And why despair, indulgence when we crave 
From Erin's sons, the generous and the brave ? 
Theirs the high spirit, and the liberal thought, 
Kind, warm, sincere, with native candour fraught ; 
Still has the stranger, in their social isle, 
Met the frank welcome and the cordial smile, 
And well their hearts can share, though unexpress'd, 
Each thought, each feeling, of the soldier's breast. 

[As, in the present collected edition of the writings of Mrs 
Hemans, chronological arrangement has been for the first 
time strictly attended to, a selection from her Juvenile com- 
positions has been given, chiefly as a matter of curiosity — for 
her real career as an authoress cannot be said to have com- 
menced before the publication of the section which immedi- 
ately follows. 

In a very general point of view, the intellectual history of 
Mrs Hemans' mind may be divided into two distinct and sepa- 
rate eras — the first of which may be termed the classical, and 
comprehends the productions of her pen, from " The Restora- 
tion of the Works of Art to Italy," and " Modern Greece," 
down to the " Historical Scenes," and the " Translations from 
Camoens ;"and the last, the romantic, which commences with 
" The Forest Sanctuary," and includes " The Records of 
Woman," together with nearly all her later efforts. In regard 
to excellence, there can be little doubt that the last section as 
far transcends the first as that does the merely Juvenile Poems 
now given, and which certainly appear to us to exhibit occa- 
sional scintillations of the brightness which followed. Even after 
the early poetical attempts of Cowley and Pope, of Chatterton, 
Kirke White, and Byron, these immature outpourings of sen- 
timent and description may be read with an interest which 
diminishes not by comparison.] 



22 



THE RESTORATION" OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 



THE RESTOKATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 

[" The French, who in every invasion have been the scourge of Italy, and have rivalled or rather surpassed the rapacity of 
the Goths and Vandals, laid their sacrilegious hands on the unparalleled collection of the Vatican, tore its masterpieces 
from their pedestals, and, dragging them from then- temples of marble, transported them to Paris, and consigned them to 

the dull sullen halls, or rather stables, of the Louvre But the joy of discovery was short, and the triumph 

of taste transitory." — Eustace's Classical Tour through Italy, vol. ii. p. 60.] 

" Italia, Italia ! tu cui die la sorte 
t Demo infelice di bellezza, ond' hai 

Funesta dote d'infiniti guai, 
Che'n fronte scritte per gran doglia porte; 
Deh, fossi tu men bella, o almen piu forte." 



Land of departed fame ! whose classic plains 
Have proudly echo'd to immortal strains ; 
Whose hallow'd soil hath given the great and brave, 
Day-stars of life, a birth-place and a grave ; 
Home of the Arts ! where glory's faded smile 
Sheds lingering light o'er many a mouldering pile ; 
Proud wreck of vanish'd power, of splendour fled, 
Majestic temple of the mighty dead ! 
Whose grandeur, yet contending with decay, 
Gleams through the twilight of thy glorious day ; 
Though dimm'd thy brightness, riveted thy chain, 
Yet, fallen Italy ! rejoice again ! 
Lost, lovely realm ! once more 'tis thine to gaze 
On the rich relics of sublimer days. 

Awake, ye Muses of Etrurian shades, 
Or sacred Tivoli's romantic glades ; 
Wake, ye that slumber in the bowery gloom 
Where the wild ivy shadows Virgil's tomb ; 
Or ye, whose voice, by Sorga's lonely wave, 
Swell'd the deep echoes of the fountain's cave, 
Or thrill'd the soul in Tasso's numbers high — 
Those magic strains of love and chivalry ! 
If yet by classic streams ye fondly rove, 
Haunting the myrtle vale, the laurel grove, 
Oh ! rouse once more the daring soul of song, 
Seize with bold hand the harp, forgot so long, 
And hail, with wonted pride, those works revered, 
Hallow'd by time, by absence more endear'd. 

And breathe to Those the strain, whose warrior- 
might 
Each danger stemm'd, prevail' d in every fight — 
Souls of unyielding power, to storms inured, 
Sublimed by peril, and by toil matured. 
Sing of that Leader, whose ascendant mind 
Could rouse the slumbering spirit of mankind ; 
Whose banners track'd the vanquish'd Eagle's flight 
O'er many a plain, and dark sierra's height ; 



Who bade once more the wild heroic lay 
Record the deeds of Roncesvalles' day ; 
Who, through each mountain-pass of rock and snow, 
An Alpine huntsman, chased the fear-struck foe ; 
Waved his proud standard to the balmy gales, 
Rich Languedoc ! that fan thy glowing vales, 
And 'midst those scenes renew'd th' achievements 

high 
Bequeath'd to fame by England's ancestry. 

Yet, when the storm seem'd hush'd, the conflict 
past, 
One strife remain'd — the mightest and the last ! 
Nerved for the struggle, in that fateful hour 
Untamed Ambition summon'd all his power : 
Vengeance and Pride, to frenzy roused, were there, 
And the stern might of resolute Despair. 
Isle of the free ! 'twas then thy champions stood, 
Breasting unmoved the combat's wildest flood ; 
Sunbeam of battle ! then thy spirit shone, 
Glow'd in each breast, and sunk with life alone. 

hearts devoted ! whose illustrious doom 
Gave there at once your triumph and your tomb, 
Ye firm and faithful, in the ordeal tried 
Of that dread strife, by Freedom sanctified ; 
Shrined, not entomb'd, ye rest in sacred earth, 
Hallow'd by deeds of more than mortal worth. 
What though to mark where sleeps heroic dust, 
No sculptured trophy rise, or breathing bust, 
Yours, on the scene where valour's race was run, 
A prouder sepulchre — the field ye won ! 
There every mead, each cabin's lowly name, 
Shall live a watchword blended with your fame ; 
And well may flowers suffice those graves to crown 
That ask no urn to blazon their renown ! 
There shall the bard in future ages tread, 
And bless each wreath that blossoms o'er the 
dead : 



THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 



23 



Revere each tree whose sheltering branches wave 
O'er the low mounds, the altars of the brave ! 
Pause o'er each warrior's grass-grown bed, and hear 
In every breeze some name to glory dear ; 
And as the shades of twilight close around, 
With martial pageants people all the ground. 
Thither unborn descendants of the slain 
Still throng as pilgrims to the holy fane, 
While as they trace each spot, whose records tell 
Where fought their fathers, and prevail'd, and fell, 
Warm in their souls shall loftiest feelings glow, 
Claiming proud kindred with the dust below ! 
And many an age shall see the brave repair 
To learn the Hero's bright devotion there. 

And well, Ausonia ! may that field of fame, 
From thee one song of echoing triumph claim. 
Land of the lyre ! 'twas there th' avenging sword 
Won the bright treasures to thy fanes restored ; 
Those precious trophies o'er thy realms that throw 
A veil of radiance, hiding half thy woe, 
And bid the stranger for awhile forget 
How deep thy fall, and deem thee glorious yet. 

Yes, fair creations ! to perfection wrought, 
Embodied visions of ascending thought ! 
Forms of sublimity ! by Genius traced 
In tints that vindicate adoring taste ! 
Whose bright originals, to earth unknown, 
Live in the spheres encircling glory's throne ; 
Models of art, to deathless fame consign' d, 
Stamp'd with the high-born majesty of mind ; 
Yes, matchless works ! your presence shall restore 
One beam of splendour to your native shore, 
And her sad scenes of lost renown illume, 
As the bright sunset gilds some hero's tomb. 

Oh ! ne'er, in other climes, though many an eye 
Dwelt on your charms, in beaming ecstasy — 
Ne'er was it yours to bid the soul expand 
With thoughts so mighty, dreams so boldly grand, 
As in that realm, where each faint breeze's moan 
Seems a low dirge for glorious ages gone ; 
Where midst the ruin'd shrines of many a vale, 
E'en Desolation tells a haughty tale, 
And scarce a fountain flows, a rock ascends, 
But its proud name with song eternal blends ! 

Yes ! in those scenes where every ancient stream 
Bids memory kindle o'er some lofty theme ; 
Where every marble deeds of fame records, 
Each ruin tells of Earth's departed lords ; 
And the deep tones of inspiration swell 
From each wild olive-wood, and Alpine dell ; 



Where heroes slumber on their battle plains, 
Midst prostrate altars and deserted fanes, 
And Fancy communes, in each lonely spot, 
With shades of those who ne'er shall be forgot ; 
There was your home, and there your power imprest, 
With tenfold awe, the pilgrim's glowing breast ; 
And, as the wind's deep thrills and mystic sighs 
Wake the wild harp to loftiest harmonies, 
Thus at your influence, starting from repose, 
Thought Feeling, Fancy, into grandeur rose. 

Fair Florence ! queen of Arno's lovely vale ! 
Justice and Truth indignant heard thy tale, 
And sternly smiled, in retribution's hour, 
To wrest thy treasures from the Spoiler's power. 
Too long the spirits of thy noble dead 
Mourn'd o'er the domes they rear'd in ages fled. 
Those classic scenes their pride so richly graced, 
Temples of genius, palaces of taste, 
Too long, with sad and desolated mien, 
Reveal'd where Conquest's lawless track had been ; 
Reft of each form with brighter light imbued, 
Lonely they frown' d, a desert solitude. 
Florence ! th' Oppressor's noon of pride is o'er, 
Rise in thy pomp again, and weep no more ! 

As one who, starting at the dawn of day 
From dark illusions, phantoms of dismay, 
With transport heighten'd by those ills of night, 
Hails the rich glories of expanding light ; 
E'en thus, awakening from thy dream of woe, 
While heaven's own hues in radiance round thee 

glow, 
With warmer ecstasy 'tis thine to trace 
Each tint of beauty, and each line of grace ; 
More bright, more prized, more precious, since 

deplored 
As loved lost relics, ne'er to be restored — ■ 
Thy grief as hopeless as the tear-drop shed 
By fond affection bending o'er the dead. 

Athens of Italy ! once more are thine 
Those matchless gems of Art's exhaustless mine. 
For thee bright Genius darts his living beam, 
Warm o'er thy shrines the tints of Glory stream, 
And forms august as natives of the sky 
Rise round each fane in faultless majesty — 
So chastely perfect, so serenely grand, 
They seem creations of no mortal hand. 

Ye at whose voice fair Art, with eagle glance, 
Burst in full splendour from her deathlike trance — 
Whose rallying call bade slumbering nations wake, 
And daring Intellect his bondage break — 



24 



THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS TO ITALY. 



Beneath whose eye the lords of song arose, 
And snatch'd the Tuscan lyre from long repose, 
And bade its pealing energies resound 
With power electric through the realms around ; 
high in thought, magnificent in soul ! 
Born to inspire, enlighten, and control ; 
Cosmo, Lorenzo ! view your reign once more, 
The shrine where nations mingle to adore ! 
Again th' enthusiast there, with ardent gaze, 
Shall hail the mighty of departed days : 
Those sovereign spirits, whose commanding mind 
Seems in the marble's breathing mould enshrined; 
Still with ascendant power the world to awe, 
Still the deep homage of the heart to draw ; 
To breathe some spell of holiness around, 
Bid all the scene be consecrated ground, 
And from the stone, by Inspiration wrought, 
Dart the pure lightnings of exalted thought. 

There thou, fair offspring of immortal Mind ! 
Love's radiant goddess, idol of mankind ! 
Once the bright object of Devotion's vow, 
Shalt claim from taste a kindred worship now. 
Oh ! who can tell what beams of heavenly light 
Flash'd o'er the sculptor's intellectual sight, 
How many a glimpse, reveal'd to him alone," 
Made brighter beings, nobler worlds, his own ; 
Ere, like some vision sent the earth to bless, 
Burst into life thy pomp of loveliness ! 

Young Genius there, while dwells his kindling 
eye 
On forms instinct with bright divinity, 
While new-born powers, dilating in his heart, 
Embrace the full magnificence of Art ; 
From scenes by Raphael's gifted hand array 'd, 
From dreams of heaven by Angelo portray'd ; 
From each fair work of Grecian skill sublime, 
Seal'd with perfection, " sanctified by time ;" 
Shall catch a kindred glow, and proudly feel 
His spirit burn with emulative zeal : 
Buoyant with loftier hopes, his soul shall rise, 
Imbued at once with nobler energies ; 
O'er life's dim scenes on rapid pinions soar, 
And worlds of visionary grace explore, 
Till his bold hand give glory's daydream birth, 
And with new wonders charm admiring earth. 

Venice exult ! and o'er thy moonlight seas 
Swell with gay strains each Adriatic breeze ! 
What though long fled those years of martial fame 
That shed romantic lustre o'er thy name ; 
Though to the winds thy streamers idly play, 
And the wild waves another Queen obey ; 



Though quench'd the spirit of thine ancient race, 
And power and freedom scarce have left a trace ; 
Yet still shall Art her splendours round thee cast, 
And gild the wreck of years for ever past. 
Again thy fanes may boast a Titian's dyes, 
Whose clear soft brilliance emulates thy skies, 
And scenes that glow in colouring's richest bloom 
With life's warm flush Palladian halls illume. 
From thy rich dome again th' unrivall'd steed 
Starts to existence, rushes into speed, 
Still for Lysippus claims the wreath of fame, 
Panting with ardour, vivified with flame. 

Proud Racers of the Sun ! to fancy's thought 
Burning with spirit, from his essence caught, 
No mortal birth ye seem — but form'd to bear 
Heaven's car of triumph through the realms of 

air; 
To range uncurb'd the pathless fields of space, 
The winds your rivals in the glorious race ; 
Traverse empyreal spheres with buoyant feet, 
Free as the zephyr, as the shot-star fleet ; 
And waft through worlds unknown the vital ray, 
The flame that wakes creations into day. 
Creatures of fire and ether ! wing'd with light, 
To track the regions of the Infinite ! 
From purer elements whose life was drawn, 
Sprung from the sunbeam, offspring of the dawn 
What years, on years in silence gliding by, 
Have spared those forms of perfect symmetry ! 
Moulded by Art to dignify alone 
Her own bright deity's resplendent throne, 
Since first her skill their fiery grace bestow'd 
Meet for such lofty fate, such high abode, 
How many a race, whose tales of glory seem 
An echo's voice — the music of a dream, 
Whose records feebly from oblivion save 
A few bright traces of the wise and brave ; 
How many a state, whose pillar'd strength sublime 
Defied the storms of war, the waves of time, 
Towering o'er earth majestic and alone, 
Fortress of power — has flourish 'd and is gone ! 
And they, from clime to clime by conquest borne, 
Each fleeting triumph destined to adorn, 
They, that of powers and kingdoms lost and won 
Have seen the noontide and the setting sun, 
Consummate still in every grace remain, 
As o'er their heads had ages roll'd in vain ! 
Ages, victorious in their ceaseless flight 
O'er countless monuments of earthly might ! 
While she, from fair Byzantium's lost domain, 
Who bore those treasures to her ocean-reign, 
'Midst the blue deep, who rear'd her island throne, 
And called th' infinitude of waves her own ; 



THE RESTORATION OF THE WOKKS TO ITALY. 



25 



Venice the proud, the Regent of the sea, 
Welcomes in chains the trophies of the Free ! 

And thou, whose Eagle towering plume unfurl'd 
Once cast its shadow o'er a vassal world, 
Eternal city ! round whose Curule throne 
The lords of nations knelt in ages flown ■ 
Thou, whose Augustan years have left to time 
Immortal records of their glorious prime ; 
When deathless bards, thine olive-shades among, 
Swell'd the high rapkires of heroic song ; 
Fair, fallen Empress ! raise thy languid head 
From the cold altars of th' illustrious dead, 
And once again with fond delight survey 
The proud memorials of thy noblest day. 

Lo ! where thy sons, Rome ! a godlike train, 
In imaged majesty return again ! 
Bards, chieftains, monarchs, tower with mien 

august 
O'er scenes that shrine their venerable dust. 
Those forms, those features, luminous with soul, 
Still o'er thy children seem to claim control ; 
With awful grace arrest the pilgrim's glance, 
Bind his rapt soul in elevating trance, 
And bid the past, to fancy's ardent eyes, 
From time's dim sepulchre in glory rise. 

Souls of the lofty ! whose undying names 
Rouse the young bosom still to noblest aims ; 
Oh ! with your images could fate restore 
Your own high spirit to your sons once more ; 
Patriots and Heroes ! could those flames return 
That bade your hearts with freedom's ardours burn ; 
Then from the sacred ashes of the first, 
Might a new Rome in phoenix grandeur burst ! 
With one bright glance dispel th' horizon's gloom, 
With one loud call wake empire from the tomb ; 
Bind round her brows her own triumphal crown, 
Lift her dread segis with majestic frown, 
Unchain her eagle's wing, and guide his flight 
To bathe his plumage in the fount of light ! 

Vain dream ! Degraded Rome ! thy noon is o'er; 
Once lost, thy spirit shall revive no more. 
It sleeps with those, the sons of other days, 
Who fix'd on thee the world's adoring gaze ; 
Those, blest to live, while yet thy star was high, 
More blest, ere darkness quench'd its beam, to die ! 

Yet, though thy faithless tutelary powers 
Have fled thy shrines, left desolate thy towers, 
Still, still to thee shall nations bend their way, 
Revered in ruin, sovereign in decay ! 



Oh ! what can realms in fame's full zenith boast 
To match the relics of thy splendour lost ! 
By Tiber's waves, on each illustrious hill, 
Genius and Taste shall love to wander still ; 
For there has Art survived an empire's doom, 
And rear'd her throne o'er Latium's trophied 

tomb : 
She from the dust recalls the brave and free, 
Peopling each scene with beings worthy thee ! 

Oh ! ne'er again may War, with lightning-stroke, 
Rend its last honours from the shatter d oak ! 
Long be those works, revered by ages, thine, 
To lend one triumph to thy dim decline. 

Bright with stern beauty, breathing wrathful fire, 
In all the grandeur of celestial ire, 
Once more thine own, th' immortal Archer's form 
Sheds radiance round, with more than Being 

warm ! 
Oh ! who could view, nor deem that perfect frame 
A living temple of ethereal flame 1 

Lord of the daystar ! how may words portray 

Of thy chaste glory one reflected ray 1 

Whate'er the soul could dream, the hand could 

trace, 
Of regal dignity and heavenly grace ; 
Each purer effluence of the fair and bright, 
Whose fitful gleams have broke on mortal sight ; 
Each bold idea, borrow'd from the sky, 
To vest th' embodied form of Deity ; 
All, all in thee, ennobled and refined, 
Breathe and enchant, transcendently combined ! 
Son of Elysium ! years and ages gone 
Have bow'd in speechless homage at thy throne, 
And days unborn, and nations yet to be, 
Shall gaze, absorb'd in ecstasy, on thee ! 

And thou, triumphant wreck, 1 e'en yet sublime, 
Disputed trophy, claimed by Art and time : 
Hail to that scene again, where Genius caught 
From thee its fervours of diviner thought ! 
Where He, th' inspired One, whose gigantic mind 
Lived in some sphere to him alone assign'd ; 
Who from the past, the future, and th' unseen 
Could call up forms of more than earthly mien : 
Unrivall'd Angelo on thee would gaze, 
Till his full soul imbibed perfection's blaze ! 
And who but he, that Prince of Art, might dare 
Thy sovereign greatness view without despair ? 

1 The Belvidere Torso, the favourite study of Michael 
Angelo, and of many other distinguished artists. 



26 



THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 



Emblem of Rome ! from power's meridian hurl'd, 
Yet claiming still the homage of the world. 

What hadst thou been, ere barbarous hands 
defaced 
The work of wonder, idolised by taste ] 
Oh ! worthy still of some divine abode, 
Mould of a Conqueror ! ruin of a God ! 1 
Still, like some broken gem, whose quenchless beam 
From each bright fragment pours its vital stream, 
'Tis thine, by fate unconquer'd, to dispense 
From every part some ray of excellence ! 
E'en yet, inform'd with essence from on high, 
Thine is no trace of frail mortality ! 
Within that frame a purer being glows, 
Through viewless veins a brighter current flows ; 
Fill'd with immortal life each muscle swells, 
In every line supernal grandeur dwells, 

Consummate work ! the noblest and the last 
Of Grecian Freedom, ere her reign was past : 2 
Nurse of the mighty, she, while lingering still, 
Her mantle flow'd o'er many a classic hill, 
Ere yet her voice its parting accents breathed, 
A hero's image to the world bequeathed ; 
Enshrined in thee th' imperishable ray 
Of high-soul'd Genius, foster d by her sway, 
And bade thee teach, to ages yet unborn, 
What lofty dreams were hers — who never shall 
return ! 

And mark yon group, transfix'd with many a throe, 
Seal'd with the image of eternal woe : 
With fearful truth, terrific power, exprest, 
Thy pangs, Laocoon, agonise the breast, 
And the stern combat picture to mankind 
Of suffering nature and enduring mind. 

1 " Q,uoique cette statue d'Hercule ait et£ maltrait^e et 
mutilee d'une maniere etrange, se trouvant sans tete, sans 
bras, et sans jambes, elle est cependant encore un chef- 
d'oeuvre aux yeux des connoisseurs ; et ceux qui savent percer 
dans les mysteres de 1'art, se la repre'sentent dans toute sa 
beaute\ L'Artiste, en voulant representer Hercule, a forme 1 
un corps ideal audessus de la nature * * * Cet Hercule 
paroit done ici tel qu'il put etre lorsque, purine" par le feu des 
foiblesses de 1' humanite, il obtint 1' immortality et prit place 
aupres des Dieux. II est represented sans aucun besoin de 
nourriture et de reparation de forces. Les veines y sont tout 
invisibles." — Winckelmann, Histoire de V Art chez les 
Anciens, torn. ii. p. 248. 

2 " Le Torso d' Hercule paroit un des derniers ouvrages 
parfaits que 1'art ait produit en Grece, avant la perte de sa 
libdrte. Car apres que la Grece fut reduite en province 
Romaine, 1' histoire ne fait mention d' aucun artiste ce±lebre 
de cette nation, jusqu'aux temps du Triumvirat Romain." — • 
Winckelmann, ibid. torn. ii. p. 250. 



Oh, mighty conflict ! though his pains intense 
Distend each nerve, and dart through every sense; 
Though fix'd on him, his children's suppliant eyes 
Implore the aid avenging fate denies ; 
Though with the giant-snake in fruitless strife, 
Heaves every muscle with convulsive life, 
And in each limb existence writhes, enroll'd 
Midst the dread circles of the venom'd fold ; 
Yet the strong spirit lives — and not a cry 
Shall own the might of Nature's agony ! 
That furrow'd brow unconquer'd soul reveals, 
That patient eye to angry Heaven appeals, 
That struggling bosom concentrates its breath, 
Nor yields one moan to torture or to death ! 3 

Sublimest triumph of intrepid Art ! 
With speechless horror to congeal the heart, 
To freeze each pulse, and dart through every vein 
Cold thrills of fear, keen sympathies of pain ; 
Yet teach the spirit how its lofty power 
May brave the pangs of fate's severest hour. 

Turn from such conflicts, and enraptured gaze 
On scenes where painting all her skill displays : 
Landscapes, by colouring dress'd in richer dyes, 
More mellow'd sunshine, more unclouded skies, 
Or dreams of bliss to dying martyrs given, 
Descending seraphs robed in beams of heaven. 

Oh ! sovereign Masters of the Pencil's might, 
Its depths of shadow and its blaze of light ; 
Ye, whose bold thought, disdaining every bound, 
Explored the worlds above, below, around, 
Children of Italy ! who stand alone 
And unapproach'd, midst regions all your own ; 
What scenes, what beings bless'd your favour'd 

sight, 
Severely grand, unutterably bright ! 

3 " It is not, in the same manner, in the agonised limbs, 
or in the convulsed muscles of the Laocoon, that the secret 
grace of its composition resides ; it is in the majestic air of 
the head, which has not yielded to suffering, and in the deep 
serenity of the forehead, which seems to be still superior to 
all its afflictions, and significant of a mind that cannot be 
subdued." — Alison's Essays, vol. ii. p. 400. 

" Laocoon nous offre le spectacle de la nature humainedans 
la plus grande douleur dont elle soit susceptible, sous 1' image 
d'un homme qui tache de rassembler contre elle toute la 
force del' esprit. Tandis que l'exces de la souffrance enfle 
les muscles, et tire violemment les nerfs, le courage se montre 
sur le front gonfle\- la poitrine s'eleve avec peine par la 
ndcessite de la respiration, qui est egalement contrainte par 
le silence que la force de 1' ame impose a la douleur qu'elle 
voudroit ^touffer * * * * Son air est plaintif, et non 
criard."— Winckelmann, Histoire de I' Art chez les Anciens, 
torn. ii. p. 214. 



THE RESTORATION" OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY. 



27 



Triumphant spirits ! your exulting eye 
Could meet the noontide of eternity, 
And gaze untired, undaunted, uncontrolled, 
On all that Fancy trembles to behold. 

Bright on your view such forms their splendour 

shed 
As burst on prophet-bards in ages fled : 
Forms that to trace no hand but yours might dare, 
Darkly sublime, or exquisitely fair ; 
These o'er the walls your magic skill array' d, 
Glow in rich sunshine, gleam through melting shade, 
Float in light grace, in awful greatness tower, 
And breathe and move, the records of your power. 
Inspired of heaven ! what heighten' d pomp ye cast 
O'er all the deathless trophies of the past ! 
Round many a marble fane and classic dome, 
Asserting still the majesty of Rome — 
Round many a work that bids the world believe 
What Grecian Art could image and achieve, 
Again, creative minds, your visions throw 
Life's chasten'd warmth and Beauty's mellowest 

glow. 
And when the Morn's bright beams and mantling 

dyes 
Pour the rich lustre of Ausonian skies, 
Or evening suns illume with purple smile 
The Parian altar and the pillar'd aisle, 
Then, as the full or soften'd radiance falls 
On angel-groups that hover o'er the walls, 
Well may those temples, where your hand has shed 
Light o'er the tomb, existence round the dead, 
Seem like some world, so perfect and so fair, 
That nought of earth should find admittance there, 
Some sphere, where beings, to mankind unknown, 
Dwell in the brightness of their pomp alone ! 

Hence, ye vain fictions ! fancy's erring theme ! 
Gods of illusion ! phantoms of a dream ! 
Frail, powerless idols of departed time, 
Fables of song, delusive, though sublime ! 
To loftier tasks has Roman Art assign'd 
Her matchless pencil, and her mighty mind ! 
From brighter streams her vast ideas flow'd, 
With purer fire her ardent spirit glow'd. 
To her 'twas given in fancy to explore 
The land of miracles, the holiest shore ; 
That realm where first the Light of Life was sent, 
The loved, the punish'd, of th' Omnipotent ! 
O'er Judah's hills her thoughts inspired would stray, 
Through Jordan's valleys trace their lonely way ; 
By Siloa's brook, or Almotana's deep, 1 
Chain'd in dead silence, and unbroken sleep ; 

1 A Imotana. The name given by the Arabs to the Dead Sea. 



Scenes, whose cleft rocks and blasted deserts tell 
Where pass'd th' Eternal, where his anger fell S 
Where oft his voice the words of fate reveal'd, 
Swell'd in the whirlwind, in the thunder peal'd, 
Or, heard by prophets in some palmy vale, 
" Breathed still small " whispers on the midnight 

gale. 
There dwelt her spirit — there her hand portray'd, 
Midst the lone wilderness or cedar-shade, 
Ethereal forms with awful missions fraught, 
Or patriarch-seers absorb'd in sacred thought, 
Bards, in high converse with the world of rest, 
Saints of the earth, and spirits of the blest. 
But chief to Him, the Conqueror of the grave, 
Who lived to guide us, and who died to save ; 
Him, at whose glance the powers of evil fled, 
And soul return'd to animate the dead; 
Whom the waves own'd — and sunk beneath his eye, 
Awed by one accent of Divinity ; 
To Him she gave her meditative hours, 
Hallow'd her thoughts, and sanctified her powers. 
O'er her bright scenes sublime repose she threw, 
As all around the Godhead's presence knew, 
And robed the Holy One's benignant mien 
In beaming mercy, majesty serene. 

Oh ! mark where Raphael's pure and perfect line 
Portrays that form ineffably divine ! 
Where with transcendant skill his hand has shed 
Diffusive sunbeams round the Saviour's head; 3 
Each heaven-illumined lineament imbued 
With all the fulness of beatitude, 
And traced the sainted group, whose mortal sight 
Sinks overpower'd by that excess of light ! 

Gaze on that scene, and own the might of Art, 
By truth inspired, to elevate the heart ! 
To bid the soul exultingly possess, 
Of all her powers, a heighten'd consciousness ; 
And, strong in hope, anticipate the day, 
The last of life, the first of freedom's ray; 
To realise, in some unclouded sphere, 
Those pictured glories feebly imaged here ! 
Dim, cold reflections from her native sky, 
Faint effluence of "the Dayspring from on high !" 

[This poem is thus alluded to by Lord Byron, in one of his 
published letters to Mr Murray, dated from Diodati, Sept. 
30th, 1818 :— -" Italy or Dalmatia and another summer may, 
or may not, set me off again. ... I shall take Felicia 
Hemans's Restoration, &c, with me— it is a good poem- 
very."] 

2 The Transfiguration, thought to be so perfect a specimen 
of art, that, in honour of Raphael, it was carried before his 
body to the grave. 



28 



MODERN GREECE. 



MODERN GREECE. 

; O Greece ! thou sapient nurse of finer arts, 
Which to bright Science blooming Fancy bore, 
Be this thy praise, that thou, and thou alone, 
In these hast led the way, in these excell'd, 
Crown'd with the laurel of assenting Time." 

Thomson's Liberty. 



Oh ! who hath trod thy consecrated clime, 
Fair land of Phidias ! theme of lofty strains ! 
And traced each scene that, midst the wrecks 

of time, 
The print of Glory's parting step retains , 
Nor for awhile, in high- wrought dreams, forgot, 
Musing on years gone by in brightness there, 
The hopes, the fears, the sorrows of his lot, 
The hues his fate hath worn, or yet may wear ; 
As when, from mountain-heights, his ardent eye 
Of sea and heaven hath track'd the blue infinity 1 



Is there who views with cold unalter'd mien, 
His frozen heart with proud indifference fraught, 
Each sacred haunt, each unforgotten scene, 
"Where Freedom triumph'd, or where Wisdom 

taught ] 
Souls that too deeply feel ! oh, envy not 
The sullen calm your fate hath never known : 
Through the dull twilight of that wintery lot 
Genius ne'er pierced, nor Fancy's sunbeam shone, 
Nor those high thoughts that, hailing Glory's 
trace, 
Glow with the generous flames of every age and race. 



But blest the wanderer whose enthusiast mind 
Each muse of ancient days hath deep imbued 
With lofty lore, and all his thoughts refined 
In the calm school of silent solitude ; 
Pour'd on his ear, midst groves and glens retired, 
The mighty strains of each illustrious clime, 
All that hath lived, while empires have expired, 
To float for ever on the winds of time ; 
And on his soul indelibly portray'd 
Fair visionary forms, to fill each classic shade. 

IV. 

Is not this mind, to meaner thoughts unknown, 
A sanctuary of beauty and of light ? 
There he may dwell in regions all his own, 
A world of dreams, where all is pure and bright. 



For him the scenes of old renown possess 
Romantic charms, all veil'd from other eyes ; 
There every form of nature's loveliness 
Wakes in his breast a thousand sympathies ; 
As music's voice, in some lone mountain dell, 
From rocks and caves around calls forth each 
echo's swell. 



For him Italia's brilliant skies illume 
The bard's lone haunts, the warrior's combat- 
plains, 
And the wild rose yet lives to breath and bloom 
Round Doric Paestum's solitary fanes. 1 
But most, fair Greece ! on thy majestic shore 
He feels the fervours of his spirit rise ; 
Thou birth-place of the Muse ! whose voice of yore 
Breathed in thy groves immortal harmonies ; 
And lingers still around the well-known coast, 
Murmuring a wild farewell to fame and freedom lost. 



By seas that flow in brightness as they lave 
Thy rocks, th' enthusiast rapt in thought may 

stray, 
While roves his eye o'er that deserted wave, 
Once the proud scene of battle's dread array. 
— ye blue waters ! ye, of old that bore, 
The free, the conquering, hymn'd by choral 

strains, 
How sleep ye now around the silent shore, 
The lonely realm of ruins and of chains ! 
How are the mighty vanish'd in their pride ! 
E'en as their barks have left no traces on your tide. 



Hush'd are the Paeans whose exulting tone 
Swell'd o'er that tide 2 — the sons of battle sleep — 

i " The Paestan rose, from its peculiar fragrance and the 
singularity of blowing twice a-year, is often mentioned by 
the classic poets The wild rose, which now shoots up among 
the ruins, is of the small single damask kind, with a very 
high perfume ; as a farmer assured me on the spot, it flowers 
both in spring and autumn."— Swinburne's Travels in the 
Two Sicilies. 

2 In the naval engagements of the Greeks, " it was usual 



MODERN GREECE. 



29 



The wind's wild sigh, the halcyon's voice alone 
Blend with the plaintive murmur of the deep. 
Yet when those waves have caught the splendid 

hues 
Of morn's rich firmament, serenely bright, 
Or setting suns the lovely shore suffuse 
With all their purple mellowness of light, 
Oh ! who could view the scene, so calmly fair, 
Nor dream that peace, and joy, and liberty were 

there ? 



Where soft the sunbeams play, the zephyrs blow, 
Tis hard to deem that misery can be nigh ; 
Where the clear heavens in blue transparence 

glow, 
Life should be calm and cloudless as the sky ; 
— Yet o'er the low, dark dwellings of the dead, 
Verdure and flowersin summer-bloom may smile, 
And ivy-boughs their graceful drapery spread 
In green luxuriance o'er the ruin'd pile ; 
And mantling woodbine veil the wither'd tree ; — ■ 
And thus it is, fair land ! forsaken Greece, with 

thee. 



For all the loveliness, and light, and bloom 
That yet are thine, surviving many a storm, 
Are but as heaven's warm radiance on the tomb, 
The rose's blush that masks the canker-worm. 
And thou art desolate — thy morn hath pass'd ! 
So dazzling in the splendour of its sway, 
That the dark shades the night hath o'er thee cast 
Throw tenfold gloom around thy deep decay. 
Once proud in freedom, still in ruin fair, 
Thy fate hath been unmatch'd — in glory and 
despair. 



For thee, lost land ! the hero's blood hath flow'd, 
The high in soul have brightly lived and died ; 
For thee the light of soaring genius glow'd 
O'er the fair arts it form'd and glorified. 
Thine were the minds whose energies sublime 
So distanced ages in their lightning-race, 
The task they left the sons of later time 
Was but to follow their illumined trace. 
— Now, bow'd to earth, thy children, to be free, 
Must break each link that binds their filial hearts 
to thee. 



for the soldiers before the fight to sing a psean, or hymn, to 
Mars, and after the fight another to Apollo." — See Potter's 
Antiquities of Greece, vol. ii. p. 155. 



Lo ! to the scenes of fiction's wildest tales, 
Her own bright East, thy son, Morea ! flies, 1 
To seek repose midst rich, romantic vales, 
Whose incense mounts to Asia's vivid skies. 
There shall he rest ? — Alas ! his hopes in vain 
Guide to the sun-clad regions of the palm : 
Peace dwells not now on oriental plain, 
Though earth is fruitfulness, and air is balm ; 
And the sad wanderer finds but lawless foes, 
Where patriarchs reign'd of old in pastoral repose. 



Where Syria's mountains rise, or Yemen's groves, 

Or Tigris rolls his genii-haunted wave, 

Life to his eye, as wearily it roves, 

Wears but two forms— the tyrant and the slave! 

There the fierce Arab leads his daring horde 

Where sweeps the sand-storm o'er the burning 

wild ; 
There stern Oppression waves the wasting sword 
O'er plains that smile as ancient Eden smiled ; 
And the vale's bosom, and the desert's gloom, 
Yield to the injured there no shelter save the tomb. 



But thou, fair world! whose fresh unsullied 

charms 
Welcomed Columbus from the western wave, 
Wilt thou receive the wanderer to thine arms, 2 
The lost descendant of the immortal brave ? 
Amidst the wild magnificence of shades 
That o'er thy floods their twilight-grandeur cast, 
In the green depth of thine untrodden glades 
Shall he not rear his bower of peace at last 1 
Yes ! thou hast many a lone, majestic scene, 
Shrined in primeval woods, where despot ne'er 
hath been. 



There by some lake, whose blue expansive breast 
Bright from afar, an inland ocean, gleams, 
Girt with vast solitudes, profusely dress'd 
In tints like those that float o'er poet's dreams; 

1 The emigration of the natives of the Morea to different 
parts of Asia is thus mentioned by Chateaubriand in his 
Itindraire de Paris a Jerusalem — " Parvenu au dernier 
degrt; du malheur, le Morai'te s'arrache de son pays, et va 
chercher en Asie un sort moins rigoureux. Vain espoir ! il 
retrouve des cadis et des pachas jusques dans les sables du 
Jourdain et dans les deserts de Palmyre." 

2 In the same work, Chateaubriand also relates his having 
met with several Greek emigrants who had established them- 
selves in the woods of Florida. 



30 



MODERN GREECE. 



Or where some flood from pine-clad mountain 

pours 
Its might of waters, glittering in their foam, 
Midst the rich verdure of its wooded shores, 
The exiled Greek hath fix'd his sylvan home : 
So deeply lone, that round the wild retreat 
Scarce have the paths been trod by Indian hunts- 
man's feet. 



The forests are around him in their pride, 
The green savannas, and the mighty waves ; 
And isles of flowers, bright-floating o'er the tide, 1 
That images the fairy worlds it laves, 
And stillness, and luxuriance. O'er his head 
The ancient cedars wave their peopled bowers, 
On high the palms their graceful foliage spread, 
Cinctured with roses the magnolia towers; 
And from those green arcades a thousand tones 
Wake with each breeze, whose voice through Na- 
ture's temple moans. 

xvi. 

And there, no traces left by brighter days 
For glory lost may wake a sigh of grief ;' 
Some grassy mound, perchance, may meet his 

gaze, 
The lone memorial of an Indian chief. 
There man not yet hath mark'd the boundless 

plain 
With marble records of his fame and power ; 
The forest is his everlasting fane, 
The palm his monument, the rock his tower : 
Th' eternal torrent and the giant tree 
Remind him but that they, "like him, are wildly 

free. 



But doth the exile's heart serenely there 
In sunshine dwell ] — Ah ! when was exile blest ? 
When did bright scenes, clear heavens, or sum- 
mer air, 
Chase from his soul the fever of unrest ] 
— There is a heart-sick weariness of mood, 
That like slow poison wastes the vital glow, 
And shrines itself in mental solitude, 
An uncomplaining and a nameless woe, 

1 " La grace est toujours unie a la magnificence dans les 
scenes de la nature : et tandis que le courant du milieu en- 
traine vers la mer les cadavres des pins et des chenes, on voit 
sur les deux courants lat^raux, remonter, le long des rivages 
des iles flottantes de Pistia et de Nenuphar, dont les roses 
jaunes s'elevent comme de petits papillons." — Description of 
the Banks of the Mississippi, Chateaubriand's Atala. 



That coldly smiles midst pleasure'sbrightest ray, 
As the chill glacier's peak reflects the flush of day. 



Such grief is theirs, who, fix'd on foreign shore, 
Sigh for the spirit of their native gales, 
As pines the seaman, midst the ocean's roar, 
For the green earth, with all its woods and vales. 
Thus feels thy child, whose memory dwells 

with thee, 
Loved Greece ! all sunk and blighted as thou art 
Though thought and step in western wilds be free, 
Yet thine are still the daydreams of his heart : 
The deserts spread between, the billows foam, 
Thou, distant and in chains, are yet his spirit's 

home. 



In vain for him the gay liannes entwine, 
Or the green fire-fly sparkles through the brakes, 
Or summer-winds waft odours from the pine, 
As eve's last blush is dying on the lakes. 
Through thy fair vales his fancy roves the while, 
Or breathes the freshness of Cithseron's height, 
Or dreams how softly Athe us' towers would smile, 
Or Sunium's ruins, in the fading light ; 
On Corinth's cliff what sunset hues may sleep, 
Or, at that placid hour, how calm th' iEgean deep ! 



What scenes, what sunbeams, are to him like 

thine 1 
(The all of thine no tyrant could destroy !) 
E'en to the stranger's roving eye, they shine 
Soft as a vision of remember'd joy. 
And he who comes, the pilgrim of a day, 
A passing wanderer o'er each Attic hill, 
Sighs as his footsteps turn from thy decay, 
To laughing climes, where all is splendour still; 
And views with fond regret thy lessening shore, 
As he would watch a star that sets to rise no more. 



Realm of sad beauty ! thou art as a shrine 
That Fancy visits with Devotion's zeal, 
To catch high thoughts and impulses divine, 
And all the glow of soul enthusiasts feel 
Amidst the tombs of heroes — for the brave 
Whose dust, so many an age, hath been thy soil, 
Foremost in honour's phalanx, died to save 
The land redeem'd and hallow'd by their toil ; 
And there is language in thy lightest gale, 
That o'er the plains they won seems murmuring 
yet their tale. 



MODERN GREECE. 



31 



And he, whose heart is weary of the strife 
Of meaner spirits, and whose mental gaze 
Would shun the dull cold littleness of life, 
Awhile to dwell amidst sublimer days, 
Must turn to thee, whose every valley teems 
With proud remembrances that cannot die. 
Thy glens are peopled with inspiring dreams, 
Thy winds, the voice of oracles gone by ; 
And midst thy laurel shades the wanderer hears 
The sound of mighty names, the hymns of vanish'd 
years. 



Through that deep solitude be his to stray, 
By Faun and Oread loved in ages past, 
Where clear Peneus winds his rapid way 
Though the cleft heights, in antique grandeur 

vast. 
Romantic Tempe ! thou art yet the same — 
Wild, as when sung by bards of elder time : x 
Years, that have changed thy river's classic 

name, 2 
Have left thee still in savage pomp sublime ; 
And from thine Alpine clefts and marble caves, 
In living lustre still break forth the fountain waves. 



Beneath thy mountain battlements and towers, 
Where the rich arbute's coral berries glow, 3 

1 " Looking generally at the narrowness and abruptness of 
this mountain-channel, (Tempe,) and contrasting it with the 
course of the Peneus through the plains of Thessaly, the 
imagination instantly recurs to the tradition that these plains 
were once covered with water, for which some convulsion of 
nature had subsequently opened this narrow passage. The 
term vale, in our language, is usually employed to describe 
scenery in which the predominant features are breadth, 
beauty, and repose. The reader has already perceived that 
the term is wholly inapplicable to the scenery at this spot, 
and that the phrase, vale of Tempe, is one that depends on 

poetic fiction The real character of Tempe, 

though it perhaps be less beautiful, yet possesses more of 
magnificence than is implied in the epithet given to it. . . 
... To those who have visited St Vincent's rocks, below 
Bristol, I cannot convey a more sufficient idea of Tempe, 
than by saying that its scenery resembles, though on a much 
larger scale, that of the former place. The Peneus, indeed, 
as it flows through the valley, is not greatly wider than the 
Avon ; and the channel between the cliffs is equally con- 
tracted in its dimensions : but these cliffs themselves are 
much loftier and more precipitous, and project their vast 
masses of rock with still more extraordinary abruptness over 
the hollow beneath." — Holland's Travels in Albania, %c. 

2 The modern name of the Peneus is Salympria. 

3 " Towards the lower part of Tempe, these cliffs are peaked 
in a very singular manner, and form projecting angles on the 



Or midst th' exuberance of thy forest bowers, 
Casting deep shadows o'er the current's flow, 
Oft shall the pilgrim pause, in lone recess, 
As rock and stream some glancing light have 

caught, 
And gaze, till Nature's mighty forms impress 
His soul with deep sublimity of thought ; 
And linger oft, recalling many a tale, 
That breeze, and wave, and wood seem whisper- 
ing through thy dale. 



He, thought-entranced, may wander where of old 
From Delphi's chasm the mystic vapour rose, 
And trembling nations heard their doom foretold 
By the dread spirit throned midst rocks and 

snows. 
Though its rich fanes be blended with the dust, 
And silence now the hallow'd haunt possess, 
Still is the scene of ancient rites august, 
Magnificent in mountain loneliness ; 
Still inspiration hovers o'er the ground, 
Where Greece her councils held, 4 her Pythian 

victors crown'd. 



Or let his steps the rude gray cliffs explore 
Of that wild pass, once dyed with Spartan blood, 
When by the waves that break on QSta's shore, 
The few, the fearless, the devoted, stood ! 
Or rove where, shadowing Mantinea's plain, 
Bloom the wild laurels o'er the warlike dead, 5 
Or lone Platsea's ruins yet remain 
To mark the battle-field of ages fled : 
Still o'er such scenes presides a sacred power, 
Though Fiction's gods have fled from fountain, 
grot, and bower. 

vast perpendicular faces of rock which they present towards 
the chasm ; where the surface renders it possible, the sum- 
mits and ledges of the rocks are for the most part covered 
with small wood, chiefly oak, with the arbutus and other 
shrubs. On the banks of the river, wherever there is a small 
interval between the water and the cliffs, it is covered by the 
rich and widely spreading foliage of the plane, the oak, and 
other forest trees, which in these situations have attained a 
remarkable size, and in various places extend their shadow 

far over the channel of the stream The rocks 

on each side of the vale of Tempe are evidently the same ; 
what may be called, I believe, a coarse bluish-gray marble, 
with veins and portions of the rock in which the marble is of 
finer quality." — Holland's Travels in Albania, SjC. 

4 The Amphictyonic Council was convened in spring and 
autumn at Delphi or Thermopylae, and presided at tb.3 
Pythian games which were celebrated at Delphi every fifth year. 

5 " This spot, (the field of Man tinea,) on which so many 
brave men were laid to rest, is now covered with rosemary 
and laurels." — Pouqueville's Travels in the Morea. 



32 



MODERN GREECE. 



XXVII. 

Oh ! still unblamed may fancy fondly deem 
That, lingering yet, benignant genii dwell 
Where mortal worth has hallow'd grove or 

stream, 
To sway the heart with some ennobling spell ; 
For mightiest minds have felt their blest control 
In the wood's murmur, in the zephyr's sigh, 
And these are dreams that lend a voice and soul, 
And a high power, to Nature's majesty ! 
And who can rove o'er Grecian shores, nor feel, 
Soft o'er his inmost heart, their secret magic steal 1 



Yet many a sad reality is there, 
That Fancy's bright illusions cannot veil. 
Pure laughs the light, and balmy breathes the air, 
But Slavery's mien will tell its bitter tale ; 
And there, not Peace, but Desolation, throws 
Delusive quiet o'er full many a scene — 
Deep as the brooding torpor of repose 
That follows where the earthquake's track hath 

been; 
Or solemn calm on Ocean's breast that lies, 
When sinks the storm, and death has hush'd the 

seamen's cries. 



Hast thou beheld some sovereign spirit, hurl'd 
By Fate's rude tempest from its radiant sphere, 
Doom'd to resign the homage of a world, 
For Pity's deepest sigh and saddest tear ? 
Oh ! hast thou watch'd the awful wreck of mind 
That weareth still a glory in decay 1 
Seen all that dazzles and delights mankind — 
Thought, science, genius — to the storm a prey; 
And o'er the blasted tree, the wither 'd ground, 
Despair's wild nightshade spread, and darkly 
flourish round 1 



So mayst thou gaze, in sad and awe-struck 

thought, 
On the deep fall of that yet lovely clime : 
Such there the ruin Time and Fate have wrought, 
So changed the bright, the splendid, the sublime. 
There the proud monuments of Valour's name, 
The mighty works Ambition piled on high, 
The rich remains by Art bequeath'd to Fame — 
Grace, beauty, grandeur, strength,and symmetry, 
Blend in decay ; while all that yet is fair 
Seems only spared to tell how much hath perish'd 
there ! 



There, while around lie mingling in the dust 
The column's graceful shaft, with weeds o'er- 

grown, 
The mouldering torso, the forgotten bust. 
The warrior's urn, the altar's mossy stone — 
Amidst the loneliness of shatter'd fanes, 
Still matchless monuments of other years — 
O'er cypress groves or solitary plains, 
Its eastern form the minaret proudly rears : 
As on some captive city's ruin'd wall 
The victor's banner waves, exulting o'er its fall. 



Still, where that column of the mosque aspires, 
Landmark of slavery, towering o'er the waste, 
There science droops, the Muses hush their lyres 
And o'er the blooms of fancy and of taste 
Spreads the chill blight ; — as in that orient isle 
Where the dark upas taints the gale around, 1 
Within its precincts not a flower may smile, 
Nor dew nor sunshine fertilise the ground ; 
Nor wild birds' music float on zephyr's breath, 
But all is silence round, and solitude, and death. 



Far other influence pour'd the Crescent's light 
O'er conquer'd realms, in ages pass'd away ; 
Full and alone it beam'd, intensely bright, 
While distant climes in midnight darkness lay. 
Then rose th' Alhambra, with its founts and 

shades, 
Fair marble halls, alcoves, and orange bowers : 
Its sculptured lions, 2 richly wrought arcades, 
Aerial pillars, and enchanted towers ; 
Light, splendid, wild, as some Arabian tale 
Would picture fairy domes that fleet before the 

gale. 



Then foster'd genius lent each caliph's throne 
Lustre barbaric pomp could ne'er attain ; 

1 For the accounts of the upas or poison tree of Java, now 
generally believed to be fabulous, or greatly exaggerated, see 
the notes to Darwin's Botanic Garden. 

2 " The court most to be admired of the Alhambra is that 
called the court of the Lions ; it is ornamented with sixty 
elegant pillars of an architecture which bears not the least 
resemblance to any of the known orders, and might be called 

the Arabian order But its principal ornament, 

and that from which it took its name, is an alabaster cup, six 
feet in diameter, supported by twelve lions, which is said to 
have been made in imitation of the Brazen Sea of Solomon's 
temple." — Burgoanne's Travels in Spain. 



MODERN GREECE. 



33 



And stars unnumber'd o'er the orient shone, 
Bright as that Pleiad, sphered in Mecca's fane. 1 
From Bagdat's palaces the choral strains 
Rose and re-echoed to the desert's bound, 
And Science, woo'd on Egypt's burning plains, 
Rear'd her majestic head with glory crown'd ; 
And the wild Muses breathed romantic lore 
From Syria's palmy groves to Andalusia's shore. 



Those years have past in radiance — they have 

past, 
As sinks the daystar in the tropic main ; 
His parting beams no soft reflection cast, 
They burn — are quench'd — and deepest shadows 

reign. 
And Fame and Science have not left a trace 
In the vas£ regions of the Moslem's power, — 
Regions, to intellect a desert space, 
A wild without a fountain or a flower, 
Where towers Oppression midst the deepening 

glooms, 
As dark and lone ascends the cypress midst the 

tombs. 



Alas for thee, fair Greece ! when Asia pour'd 
Her fierce fanatics to Byzantium's wall ; 
When Europe sheath'd, in apathy, her sword, 
And heard unmoved the fated city's call. 
No bold crusaders ranged their serried line 
Of spears and banners round a falling throne ; 
And thou, last and noblest Constantine ! 2 
Didst meet the storm unshrinking and alone. 
Oh ! blest to die in freedom, though in vain — 
Thine empire's proud exchange the grave, and 
not the chain ! 



Hush'd is Byzantium — 'tis the dead of night — 
The closing night of that imperial race ! 3 
And all is vigil — but the eye of light 
Shall soon unfold, a wilder scene to trace : 



1 " Sept des plus fameux parmi les anciens poetes Ara- 
biques sont d£sign£s par les ^crivains orientaux sous le nom 
de Ple'iade Arabique, et leurs ouvrages 6taient suspendus 
autour de la Caaba, ou Mosque de la Mecque."— Sismondi, 
LitUrature du Midi. 

2 " The distress and fall of the last Constantine are more 
glorious than the long prosperity of the Byzantine Caesars." — 
Gibbon's Decline and Fall, &c. vol. xii. p. 226. 

3 See the description of the night previous to the taking of 
Constantinople by Mahomet II.— Gibbon's Decline and Fall, 
&c. vol. xii. p. 225. 



There is a murmuring stillness on the train 
Thronging the midnight streets, at morn to die ; 
And to the cross, in fair Sophia's fane, 
For the last time is raised Devotion's eye ; 
And, in his heart while faith's bright visions rise, 
There kneels the high-soul'd prince, the summon'd 
of the skies. 



Day breaks in light and glory — 'tis the hour 
Of conflict and of fate — the war-note calls — 
Despair hath lent a stern, delirious power 
To the brave few that guard the rampart walls. 
Far over Marmora's waves th' artillery's peal 
Proclaims an empire's doom in every note ; 
Tambour and trumpet swell the clash of steel ; 
Round spire and dome the clouds of battle float , 
From camp and wave rush on the Crescent's host, 
And the Seven Towers 4 are scaled, and all is won 
and lost. 



Then, Greece ! the tempest rose that burst on thee, 
Land of the bard, the warrior, and the sage ! 
Oh ! where were then thy sons, the great, the free, 
Whose deeds are guiding stars from age to age ? 
Though firm thy battlements of crags and snows, 
And bright the memory of thy days of pride, 
In mountain might though Corinth's fortressrose, 
On, unresisted, roll'd th' invading tide ! 
Oh ! vain the rock, the rampart, and the tower, 
If Freedom guard them not with Mind's uncon- 
quer'd power. 



Where were th' avengers then, whose viewless 

might 
Preserved inviolate their awful fane, 5 
When through the steep defiles, to Delphi's 

height, 
In martial splendour pour'd the Persian's train ? 
Then did those mighty and mysterious Powers, 
Arm'd with the elements, to vengeance wake, 
Call the dread storms to darken round their 

towers, 
Hurl down the rocks, and bid the thunders break; 



* " This building (the Castle of the Seven Towers) is men- 
tioned as early as the sixth century of the Christian era, as a 
spot which contributed to the defence of Constantinople ; and 
it was the principal bulwark of the town on the coast of the 
Propontis, in the last periods of the empire."— Pouqueville's 
Travels in the Morea. 

5 See the account from Herodotus of the supernatural de- 
fence of Delphi. — Mitford's Greece, vol. i. p. 396-7. 



34 



MODERN GREECE. 



Till far around, with deep and fearful clang, 
Sounds of unearthly war through wild Parnassus 
rang. 



Where was the spirit of the victor-throng 
Whose tombs are glorious by Scamander's tide, 
Whose names are bright in everlasting song, 
The lords of war, the praised, the deified 1 
Where he, the hero of a thousand lays, 
Who from the dead at Marathon arose 1 
All arm'd ; and beaming on the Athenians' gaze, 
A battle-meteor, guided to their foes 1 
Or they whose forms to Alaric's awe-struck eye, 2 
Hovering o'er Athens, blazed in airy panoply ? 

XLH. 

Ye slept, heroes ! chief ones of the earth ! 3 
High demigods of ancient days ! ye slept : 
There lived no spark of your ascendant worth 
When o'er your land the victor Moslem swept. 
No patriot then the sons of freedom led, 
In mountain pass devotedly to die ; 
The martyr-spirit of resolve was fled, 
And the high soul's unconquer'd buoyancy ; 
And by your graves, and on your battle-plains, 
Warriors ! your children knelt to wear the stran- 
ger's chains. 



Now have your trophies vanish'd, and your homes 
Are moulder'd from the earth, while scarce 

remain 
E'en the faint traces of the ancient tombs 
That mark where sleep the slayers or the slain. 
Your deeds are with the days of glory flown, 
The lyres are hush'd that swell'd your fame afar, 
The halls that echo'd to their sounds are gone, 
Perish'd the conquering weapons of your war; 4 

1 " In succeeding ages the Athenians honoured Theseus as 
a demigod, induced to it as well by other reasons as because, 
when they were fighting the Medes at Marathon, a consider- 
able part of the array thought they saw the apparition of The- 
seus completely armed, and bearing down before them upon 
the barbarians."— Langhorne's Plutarch, Life of Theseus. 

2 " From Thermopylae to Sparta, the leader of the Goths 
(Alaric) pursued his victorious march without encountering 
any mortal antagonist ; but one of the advocates of expiring 
paganism has confidently asserted that the walls of Athens 
were guarded by the goddess Minerva, with her formidable 
aegis, and by the angry phantom of Achilles, and that the 
conqueror was dismayed by the presence of the hostile deities 
of Greece."— Gibbon's Decline and Fall, &c. vol. v. p. 183. 

3 " Even all the chief ones of the earth."— Isaiah, xiv. 

4 "How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war 
perished ! " — Samueb, book ii. chap. i. 



And if a mossy stone your names retain, 
'Tis but to tell your sons, for them ye died in 
vain. 



Yet, where some lone sepulchral relic stands, 
That with those names tradition hallows yet, 
Oft shall the wandering son of other lands 
Linger in solemn thought and hush'd regret. 
And still have legends mark'd the lonely spot 
Where low the dust of Agamemnon lies ; 
And shades of kings and leaders unforgot, 
Hovering around, to fancy's vision rise. 
Souls of the heroes ! seek your rest again, 
Nor mark how changed the realms that saw your 
glory's reign. 



Lo, where th' Albanian spreads his despot sway 
O'er Thessaly's rich vales and glowing plains, 
Whose sons in sullen abjectness obey, 
Nor lift the hand indignant at its chains : 
Oh ! doth the land that gave Achilles birth, 
And many a chief of old illustrious line, 
Yield not one spirit of unconquer'd worth 
To kindle those that now in bondage pine 1 
No ! on its mountain-air is slavery's breath, 
And terror chills the hearts whose utter'd plaints 
were death. 



Yet if thy light, fair Freedom, rested there, 
How rich in charms were that romantic clime, 
With streams, and woods, and pastoral valleys 

fair, 
And wall'd with mountains, haughtily sublime ! 
Heights that might well be deem'd the Muses' 

reign, 
Since, claiming proud alliance with the skies, 
They lose in loftier spheres their wild domain — 
Meet home for those retired divinities 
That love, where nought of earth may e'er intrude, 
Brightly to dwell on high, in lonely sanctitude. 



There in rude grandeur daringly ascends 
Stern Pindus, rearing many a pine-clad height ; 
He with the clouds his bleak dominion blends, 
Frowning o'er vales in woodland verdure bright. 
Wild and august in consecrated pride, 
There through the deep-blue heaven Olympus 

towers, 
Girdled with mists, light-floating as to hide 
The rock-built palace of immortal powers ; 



MODERN GREECE. 



35 



Where far on high the sunbeam finds repose, 
Amidst th' eternal pomp of forests and of snows. 



Those savage cliffs and solitudes might seem 
The chosen haunts where Freedom's foot would 

roam ; 
She loves to dwell by glen and torrent-stream, 
And make the rocky fastnesses her home. 
And in the rushing of the mountain flood, 
In the wild eagle's solitary cry, 
In sweeping winds that peal through cave and 

wood, 
There is a voice of stern sublimity, 
That swells her spirit to a loftier mood 
Of solemn joy severe, of power, of fortitude. 



But from those hills the radiance of her smile 
Hath vanish'd long, her step hath fled afar ; 
O'er Suli's frowning rocks she paused a while, 1 
Kindling the watch-fires of the mountain war. 
And brightly glow'd her ardent spirit there, 
Still brightest midst privation : o'er distress 
It cast romantic splendour, and despair 
But fann'd that beacon of the wilderness ; 
And rude ravine, and precipice, and dell 
Sent their deep echoes forth, her rallying voice to 
swell. 



Dark children of the hills ! 'twas then ye wrought 
Deeds of fierce daring, rudely, sternly grand ; 
As midst your craggy citadels ye fought, 
And women mingled with your warrior band. 
Then on the cliff the frantic mother stood 2 
High o'er the river's darkly-rolling wave, 
And huii'd, in dread delirium, to the flood 
Her free-born infant, ne'er to be a slave. 
For all was lost — all, save the power to die 
The wild indignant death of savage liberty. 



Now is that strife a tale of vanish'd days, 
With mightier things forgotten soon to lie ; 
Yet oft hath minstrel sung, in lofty lays, 
Deeds less adventurous, energies less high. 



1 For several interesting particulars relative to the Suliote 
warfare with AH Pasha, see Holland's Travels in Albania. 

2 "It is related, as an authentic story, that a group of 
Suliote women assembled on one of the precipices adjoining 
the modern seraglio, and threw their infants into the chasm 
below, that they might not become the slaves of the enemy." 

-Holland's Travels, &c. 



And the dread struggle's fearful memory still 
O'er each wild rock a wilder aspect throws ; 
Sheds darker shadows o'er the frowning hill, 
More solemn quiet o'er the glen's repose ; 
Lends to the rustling pines a deeper moan, 
And the hoarse river's voice a murmur not its own. 



For stillness now — the stillness of the dead — 
Hath wrapt that conflict's lone and awful scene ; 
And man's forsaken homes, in ruin spread, 
Tell where the storming of the cliffs hath been. 
And there, o'er wastes magnificently rude, 
What race may rove, unconscious of the chain 1 
Those realms have now no desert unsubdued, 
Where Freedom's banner may be rear'd again : 
Sunk are the ancient dwellings of her fame, 
The children of her sons inherit but their name. 



Go, seek proud Sparta's monuments and fanes ! 
In scatter'd fragments o'er the vale they He ; 
Of all they were not e'en enough remains 
To lend their fall a mournful majesty. 3 
Birth-place of those whose names we first revered 
In song and story — temple of the free ! 
thou, the stern, the haughty, and the fear'd, 
Are such thy relics, and can this be thee 1 
Thou shouldst have left a giant wreck behind, 
And e'en in ruin claim'd the wonder of mankind. 



For thine were spirits cast in other mould 
Than all beside — and proved by ruder test ; 
They stood alone — the proud, the firm, the bold, 
With the same seal indelibly imprest. 
Theirs were no bright varieties of mind, 
One image stamp'd the rough, colossal race, 
In rugged grandeur frowning o'er mankind, 
Stern, and disdainful of each milder grace ; 
As to the sky some mighty rock may tower, 
Whose front can brave the storm, but will not rear 
the flower. 



Such were thy sons — their life a battle-day ! 
Their youth one lesson how for thee to die ! 
Closed is that task, and they have passed away 
Like softer beings train'd to aims less high. 



3 The ruins of Sparta, near the modern town of Mistra, are 
very inconsiderable, and only sufficient to mark the site of 
the ancient city. The scenery around them is described by 
travellers as very striking. 



36 



MODERN GREECE. 



Yet bright on earth their fame who proudly fell, 
True to their shields, the champions of thy 

cause, 
Whose funeral column bade the stranger tell 
How died the brave, obedient to thy laws I 1 
lofty mother of heroic worth, 
How couldst thou live to bring a meaner offspring 

forth ? 



Hadst thou but perishd with the free, nor known 
A second race, when glory's noon went by, 
Then had thy name in single brightness shone 
A watchword on the helm of liberty ! 
Thou shouldst have pass'd with all the light of 

fame, 
And proudly sunk in ruins, not in chains. 
But slowly set thy star midst clouds of shame, 
And tyrants rose amidst thy falling fanes ; 
And thou, surrounded by thy warriors' graves, 
Hast drain'd the bitter cup once mingled for thy 



Now all is o'er — for thee alike are flown 
Freedom's bright noon and slavery's twilight 

cloud ; 
And in thy fall, as in thy pride, alone, 
Deep solitude is round thee as a shroud. 
Home of Leonidas ! thy halls are low ; 
From their cold altars have thy Lares fled ; 
O'er thee, unmark'd, the sunbeams fade or 

glow, 
And wild-flowers wave, unbent by human tread; 
And midst thy silence, as the grave's profound, 
A voice, a step, would seem as some unearthly 

sound. 



Taygetus still lifts his awful brow 
High o'er the mouldering city of the dead, 
Sternly sublime ; while o'er his robe of snow 
Heaven's floating tints their warm suffusions 

spread. 
And yet his rippling wave Eurotas leads 
By tombs and ruins o'er the silent plain ; 
While, whispering there, his own wild graceful 

reeds 
Rise as of old, when hail'd by classic strain ; 



1 The inscription composed by Simonides for the Spartan 
monument in the pass of Thermopylae has been thus trans- 
lated : — " Stranger, go tell the Lacedemonians that we have 
obeyed their laws, and that we lie here." 



There the rose-laurels still in beauty wave, 2 
And a frail shrub survives to bloom o'er Sparta's 
grave. 



Oh, thus it is with man ! A tree, a flower, 
While nations perish, still renews its race, 
And o'er the fallen records of his power 
Spreads in wild pomp, or smiles in fairy grace. 
The laurel shoots when those have pass'd away, 
Once rivals for its crown, the brave, the free ; 
The rose is flourishing o'er beauty's clay, 
The myrtle blows when love hath ceased to be ; 
Green waves the bay when song and bard are fled, 
And all that round us blooms is blooming o'er the 
dead. 



And still the olive spreads its foliage round 

Morea's fallen sanctuaries and towers. 

Once its green boughs Minerva's votaries 

crown'd, 
Deem'd a meet offering for celestial powers. 
The suppliant's hand its holy branches bore ; 3 
They waved around the Olympic victor's head; 
And, sanctified by many a rite of yore, 
Its leaves the Spartan's honour'd bier o'erspread. 
Those rites have vanish' d — but o'er vale and hill 
Its fruitful groves arise, revered and hallow'd still. 4 



Where now thy shrines, Eleusis ! where thy fane 
Of fearful visions, mysteries wild and high ] 
The pomp of rites, the sacrificial train, 
The long procession's awful pageantry ] 
Quench'd is the torch of Ceres 5 — all around 
Decay hath spread the stillness of her reign ; 
There never more shall choral hymns resound 
O'er the hush'd earth and solitary main, 

2 " In the Eurotas I observed abundance of those famous 
reeds which were known in the earliest ages; and all the 
rivers and marshes of Greece are replete with rose-laurels, 
while the springs and rivulets are covered with lilies, tube- 
roses, hyacinths, and narcissus orientalis." — Pouqueville's 
Travels in the Morea. 

3 It was usual for suppliants to carry an olive branch bound 
with wool. 

4 The olive, according to Pouqueville, is still regarded with 
veneration by the people of the Morea. 

5 It was customary at Eleusis, on the fifth day of the 
festival, for men and women to run about with torches in 
their hands, and also to dedicate torches to Cex-es, and to 
contend who should present the largest. This was done in 
memory of the journey of Ceres in search of Proserpine, dur- 
ing which she was lighted by a torch kindled in the flames of 
Etna. — Porter's Antiquities of Greece, vol. i. p. 392. 



MODERN GREECE. 



37 



Whose wave from Salamis deserted flows, 
To bathe a silent shore of desolate repose. 



And oh, ye secret and terrific powers ! 
Dark oracles ! in depth of groves that dwelt, 
How are they sunk, the altars of your bowers, 
Where Superstition trembled as she knelt ! 
Ye, the unknown, the viewless ones ! that made 
The elements your voice, the wind and wave ; 
Spirits ! whose influence darken'd many a shade, 
Mysterious visitants of fount and cave ! 
How long your power the awe-struck nations 

sway'd, 
How long earth dreamt of you, and shudderingly 

obey'd ! 



And say, what marvel, in those early days, 
While yet the light of heaven-born truth was not, 
If man around him cast a fearful gaze, 
Peopling with shadowy powers each dell and grot 1 
Awful is nature in her savage forms, 
Her solemn voice commanding in its might, 
And mystery then was in the rush of storms, 
The gloom of woods, the majesty of night ; 
And mortals heard Fate's language in the blast, 
And rear'd your forest-shrines, ye phantoms of the 



Then through the foliage not a breeze might sigh 
But with prophetic sound — a waving tree, 
A meteor flashing o'er the summer sky, 
A bird's wild flight reveal'd the things to be. 
All spoke of unseen natures, and convey'd 
Their inspiration ; still they hover'd round, 
Hallow'd the temple, whisper'd through the 

shade, 
Pervaded loneliness, gave soul to sound ; 
Of them the fount, the forest, murmur'd still, 
Their voice was in the stream, their footstep on 

the hill. 



Now is the train of Superstition flown ! 
Unearthly beings walk on earth no more ; 
The deep wind swells with no portentous tone, 
The rustling wood breathes no fatidic lore. 
Fled are the phantoms of Livadia's cave, 
There dwell no shadows, but of crag and steep ; 
Fount of Oblivion ! in thy gushing wave, 1 
That murmurs nigh, those powers of terror sleep. 
1 The fountains of Oblivion and Memory, with the Hercy- 



Oh that such dreams alone had fled that clime! 
But Greece is changed in all that could be changed 
by time ! 



Her skies are those whence many a mighty bard 
Caught inspiration, glorious as their beams ; 
Her hills the same that heroes died to guard, 
Her vales, that foster'd Art's divinest dreams ! 
But that bright spirit o'er the land that shone, 
And all around pervading influence pour'd, 
That lent the harp of iEschylus its tone, 
And proudly hallow'd Lacedaemon's sword, 
And guided Phidias o'er the yielding stone, 
With them its ardours lived — with them its light 
is flown. 



Thebes, Corinth, Argos ! — ye renown'd of old, 
Where are your chiefs of high romantic name 1 
How soon the tale of ages may be told ! 
A page, a verse, records the fall of fame, 
The work of centuries. We gaze on you, 
cities ! once the glorious and the free, 
The lofty tales that charm'd our youth renew, 
And wondering ask, if these their scenes couldbel 
Search for the classic fane, the regal tomb, 
And find the mosque alone — a record of their doom ! 



How oft hath war his host of spoilers pour'd, 
Fair Elis ! o'er thy consecrated vales ] 2 
There have the sunbeams glanced on spear and 

sword, 
And banners floated on the balmy gales. 
Once didst thou smile, secure in sanctitude, 
As some enchanted isle mid stormy seas ; 
On thee no hostile footstep might intrude, 
And pastoral sounds alone were on thy breeze. 
Forsaken home of peace ! that spell is broke : 
Thou too hast heard the storm, andbow'd beneath 

the yoke. 

LXIX. 

And through Arcadia's wild and lone retreats 
Far other sounds have echo'd than the strain 



nian fountain, are still to be seen amongst the rocks near 
Livadia, though the situation of the cave of Trophonius, in 
their vicinity, cannot be exactly ascertained. — See Holland's 
Travels. 

2 Elis was anciently a sacred territory, its inhabitants being 
considered as consecrated to the service of Jupiter. All armies 
marching through it delivered up their weapons, and received 
them again when they had passed its boundary. 



38 



MODERN GREECE. 



Of faun and dryad, from their woodland seats, 
Or ancient reed of peaceful mountain-swain ! 
There, though at times Alpheus yet surveys, 
On his green banks renew'd, the classic dance, 
And nymph-like forms, and wild melodious 

lays, 
Revive the sylvan scenes of old romance ; 
Yet brooding fear and dark suspicion dwell 
Midst Pan's deserted haunts, by fountain, cave, 

and dell. 



But thou, fair Attica ! whose rocky bound 
All art and nature's richest gifts enshrined, 
Thou little sphere, whose soul-illumined round 
Concentrated each sunbeam of the mind ; 
"Who, as the summit of some Alpine height 
Glows earliest, latest, with the blush of day, 
Didst first imbibe the splendours of the light, 1 
And smile the longest in its lingering ray ; 
Oh ! let us gaze on thee, and fondly deem 
The past awhile restored, the present but a 
dream. 



Let Fancy's vivid hues awhile prevail — 
Wake at her call — be all thou wert once more ! 
Hark! hymns of triumph swell on every gale — 
Lo ! bright processions move along thy shore ; 
Again thy temples, midst the olive-shade, 
Lovely in chaste simplicity arise ; 
And graceful monuments, in grove and glade, 
Catch the warm tints of thy resplendent skies ; 
And sculptured forms, of high and heavenly 

mien, 
In their calm beauty smile around the sun-bright 

scene. 



Again renew'd by Thought's creative spells, 
In all her pomp thy city, Theseus ! towers : 
Within, around, the light of glory dwells 
On art's fair fabrics, wisdom's holy bowers. 
There marble fanes in finish'd grace ascend, 
The pencil's world of life and beauty glows ; 
Shrines, pillars, porticoes, in grandeur blend, 
Rich with the trophies of barbaric foes ; 
And groves of platane wave in verdant pride, 
The sage's blest retreats, by calm Ilissus' tide. 



1 " We are assured by Thucydides that Attica was the 
province of Greece in which population first became settled, 
and where the earliest progress was made toward civilisation." 
— Mitford's Greece, vol. i. p. 35. 



Bright as that fairy vision of the wave, 
Raised by the magic of Morgana's wand, 2 
On summer seas that undulating lave 
Romantic Sicily's Arcadian strand ; 
That pictured scene of airy colonnades, 
Light palaces, in shadowy glory drest, 
Enchanted groves, and temples, and arcades, 
Gleaming and floating on the ocean's breast ; 
Athens ! thus fair the dream of thee appears, 
s Fancy's eye pervades the veiling cloud of years. 



Still be that cloud withdrawn — oh ! mark on high, 
Crowning yon hill, with temples richly graced, 
That fane, august in perfect symmetry, 
The purest model of Athenian taste. 
Fair Parthenon ! thy Doric pillars rise 
In simple dignity, thy marble's hue 
Unsullied shines, relieved by brilliant skies, 
That round thee spread their deep ethereal blue ; 
And art o'er all thy light proportions throws 
The harmony of grace, the beauty of repose. 



And lovely o'er thee sleeps the sunny glow, 
When morn and eve in tranquil splendour reign, 
And on thy sculptures, as they smile, bestow 
Hues that the pencil emulates in vain. 
Then the fair forms by Phidias wrought, unfold 
Each latent grace, developing in light ; 
Catch, from soft clouds of purple and of gold, 
Each tint that passes, tremulously bright ; 
And seem indeed whate'er devotion deems, 
While so suffused with heaven, so mingling with 
its beams. 



2 Fata Morgana. This remarkable aerial phenomenon, 
which is thought by the lower order of Sicilians to be the 
work of a fairy, is thus described by Father Angelucci, whose 
account is quoted by Swinburne : — 

" On the 15th August 1643, I was surprised, as I stood at 
my window, with a most wonderful spectacle : the sea that 
washes the Sicilian shore swelled up, and became, for ten 
miles in length, like a chain of dark mountains, while the 
waters near our Calabrian coast grew quite smooth, and in 
an instant appeared like one clear polished mirror. On this 
glass was depicted, in chiaro-scuro, a string of several thou- 
sands of pilasters, all equal in height, distance, and degrees 
of light and shade. In a moment they bent into arcades 
like Roman aqueducts. A long cornice was next formed at 
the top, and above it rose innumerable castles, all perfectly 
alike ; these again changed into towers, which were shortly 
after lost in colonnades, then windows, and at last ended in 
pines, cypresses, and other trees." — Swinburne's Travels in 
the Two Sicilies. 



MODEEN GREECE. 



39 



But oh ! what words the vision may portray, 
The form of sanctitude that guards thy shrine ? 
There stands thy goddess, robed in war's array, 
Supremely glorious, awfully divine ! 
With spear and helm she stands, and flowing 

vest, 
And sculptured aegis, to perfection wrought ; 
And on each heavenly lineament imprest, 
Calmly sublime, the majesty of thought— 
The pure intelligence, the chaste repose — 
All that a poet's dream around Minerva throws. 



Bright age of Pericles ! let fancy still 
Through time's deep shadows all thy splendour 

trace, 
And in each work of art's consummate skill 
Hail the free spirit of thy lofty race : 
That spirit, roused by every proud reward 
That hope could picture, glory could bestow, 
Foster'd by all the sculptor and the bard 
Could give of immortality below. 
Thus were thy heroes form'd, and o'er their 

name, 
Thus did thy genius shed imperishable fame. 



Mark in the throng'd Ceramicus, the train 
Of mourners weeping o'er the martyr'd brave : 
Proud be the tears devoted to the slain, 
Holy the amaranth strew'd upon their grave ! l 
And hark ! unrivaLTd eloquence proclaims 
Then deeds, their trophies, with triumphant 

voice ! 
Hark ! Pericles records their honour'd names ! 2 
Sons of the fallen, in their lot rejoice : 
What hath life brighter than so bright a doom 1 ? 
What power hath fate to soil the garlands of the 

tomb] 



1 All sorts of purple and white flowers were supposed by 
the Greeks to be acceptable to the dead, and used in adorn- 
ing tombs ; as amaranth, with which the Thessalians decor- 
ated the tomb of Achilles. — Potter's Antiquities of Greece, 
vol. ii. p. 232. 

2 Pericles, on his return to Athens after the reduction of 
Samos, celebrated in a splendid manner the obsequies of 
his countrymen who fell in that war, and pronounced himself 
the funeral oration usual on such occasions. This gained 
him great applause ; and when he came down from the ros- 
trum the women paid their respects to him, and presented 
him with crowns and chaplets, like a champion just returned 
victorious from the lists.— Langhorne's Plutarch, Life of 
Pericles. 



LXXIX. 
Praise to the valiant dead ! for them doth art 
Exhaust her skill, their triumphs bodying forth ; 
Theirs are enshrined names, and eveiy heart 
Shall bear the blazon'd impress of their worth. 
Bright on the dreams of youth their fame shall 

rise, 
Their fields of fight shall epic song record ; 
And, when the voice of battle rends the skies, 
Their name shall be their country's rallying 

word ! 
While fane and column rise august to tell 
How Athens honours those for her who proudly 

fell. 



City of Theseus ! bursting on the mind, 
Thus dost thou rise, in all thy glory fled ! 
Thus guarded by the mighty of mankind, 
Thus hallow'd by the memory of the dead : 
Alone in beauty and renown — a scene 
Whose tints are drawn from freedom's loveliest 

ray. 
'Tis but a vision now — yet thou hast been 
More than the brightest vision might portray ; 
And every stone, with but a vestige fraught 
Of thee, hath latent power to wake some lofty 

thought. 



Fall'n are thy fabrics, that so oft have rung 

To choral melodies and tragic lore ; 

Now is the lyre of Sophocles unstrung, 

The song that hail'd Harmodius peals np more. 

Thy proud Piraeus is a desert strand, 

Thy stately shrines are mouldering on their 

hill, 
Closed are the triumphs of the sculptor's hand, 
The magic voice of eloquence is still ; 
Minerva's veil is rent 3 — her image gone ; 
Silent the sage's bower — the warrior's tomb o'er- 
thrown. 



3 The peplus, which is supposed to have been suspended as 
an awning over the statue of Minerva in the Parthenon, 
was a principal ornament of the Panathenaic festival ; and it 
was embroidered with various colours, representing the battle 
of the gods and Titans, and the exploits of Athenian heroes. 
When the festival was celebrated, the peplus was brought 
from the Acropolis, and suspended as a sail to the vessel, 
which on that day was conducted through the Ceramicus and 
principal streets of Athens, till it had made the circuit of the 
Acropolis. The peplus was then carried to the Parthenon, 
and consecrated to Minerva. — See Chandler's Travels, 
Stuart's Athens, $$c. 



40 



MODERN GREECE. 



Yet in decay thine exquisite remains 
"Wondering we view, and silently revere, 
As traces left on earth's forsaken plains 
By vanish'd beings of a nobler sphere ! 
Not all the old magnificence of Rome, 
All that dominion there hath left to time — 
Proud Coliseum, or commanding dome, 
Triumphal arch, or obelisk sublime, 
Can bid such reverence o'er the spirit steal, 
As aught by thee imprest with beauty's plastic seal. 



Though still the empress of the sunburnt waste, 

Palmyra rises, desolately grand — 

Though with rich gold 1 and massy sculpture 

graced, 
Commanding still, Persepolis may stand 
In haughty solitude — though sacred Nile 
The first-born temples of the world surveys, 
And many an awful and stupendous pile 
Thebes of the hundred gates e'en yet displays ; 
City of Pericles ! oh who, like thee, 
Can teach how fair the works of mortal hand may 

be? 

LXXXIV. 

Thou led'st the way to that illumined sphere 
Where sovereign beauty dwells; and thence 

didst bear, 
Oh, still triumphant in that high career ! 
Bright archetypes of all the grand and fair. 
And still to thee th' enlighten'd mind hath flown 
As to her country, — thou hast been to earth 
A cynosure, — and, e'en from victory's throne, 
Imperial Rome gave homage to thy worth ; 
And nations, rising to their fame afar, 
Still to thy model turn, as seamen to their star. 



Glory to those whose relics thus arrest 
The gaze of ages ! Glory to the free ! 
For they, they only, could have thus imprest 
Their mighty image on the years to be ! 
Empires and cities in oblivion lie, 
Grandeur may vanish, conquest be forgot, — 
To leave on earth renown that cannot die, 
Of high-soul'd genius is th' unrivall'd lot. 
Honour to thee, Athens ! thou hast shown 
What mortals may attain, and seized the palm alone. 



1 The gilding amidst the ruins of Persepolis is still, accord- 
ing to Winckelmann, in high preservation. 



LXXXVI. 

Oh ! live there those who view with scornful 

eyes 
All that attests the brightness of thy prime ? 
Yes ; they who dwell beneath thy lovely skies, 
And breathe th' inspiring ether of thy clime ! 
Their path is o'er the mightiest of the dead, 
Their homes are midst the works of noblest arts; 
Yet all around their gaze, beneath their tread, 
Not one proud thrill of loftier thought imparts. 
Such are the conquerors of Minerva's land, 
Where Genius first reveal'd the triumphs of his 
hand ! 



For them in vain the glowing light may smile 
O'er the pale marble, colouring's warmth to shed, 
And in chaste beauty many a sculptured pile 
Still o'er the dust of heroes lift its head. 
No patriot feeling binds them to the soil, 
Whose tombs and shrines their fathers have not 

rear'd ; 
Their glance is cold indifference, and their toil 
But to destroy what ages have revered — 
As if exulting sternly to erase 
Whate'er might prove that land had nursed a 
nobler race. 



And who may grieve that, rescued from their 

hands, 
Spoilers of excellence and foes to art, 
Thy relics, Athens ! borne to other lands, 
Claim homage still to thee from every heart 1 
Though now no more th' exploring stranger's 

sight, 
Fix'd in deep reverence on Minerva's fane, 
Shall hail, beneath their native heaven of light, 
All that remain'd of forms adored in vain ; 
A few short years — and, vanish'd from the scene, 
To blend with classic dust their proudest lot had 

been. 



Fair Parthenon ! yet still must Fancy weep 
For thee, thou work of nobler spirits flown. 
Bright, as of old, the sunbeams o'er thee sleep 
In all their beauty still — and thine is gone ! 
Empires have sunk since thou wert first revered, 
And varying rights have sanctified thy shrine. 
The dust is round thee of the race that rear'd 
Thy walls ; and thou — their fate must soon be 
thine ! 



MODERN GREECE. 



41 



But when shall earth again exult to see 
Visions divine like theirs renew'd in aught like 
thee] 



Lone are thy pillars now — each passing gale 
Sighs o'er them as a spirit's voice, which moan'd 
That loneliness, and told the plaintive tale 
Of the bright synod once above them throned. 
Mourn, graceful ruin ! on thy sacred hill, 
Thy gods, thy rites, a kindred fate have shared : 
Yet art thou honour'd in each fragment still 
That wasting years and barbarous hands had 



Each hallow'd stone, from rapine's fury borne, 
Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet un- 
born. 



Yes ! in those fragments, though by time defaced 
And rude insensate conquerors, yet remains 
All that may charm th' enlighten'd eye of taste, 
On shores where still inspiring freedom reigns. 
As vital fragrance breathes from every part 
Of the crush'd myrtle, or the bruised rose, 
E'en thus th' essential energy of art 
There in each wreck imperishably glows ! x 
The soul of Athens lives in every line, 
Pervading brightly still the ruins of her shrine. 



Mark on the storied frieze the graceful train, 
The holy festival's triumphal throng, 
In fair procession to Minerva's fane, 
With many a sacred symbol, move along. 
There every shade of bright existence trace, 
The fire of youth, the dignity of age ; 
The matron's calm austerity of grace, 
The ardent warrior, the benignant sage ; 
The nymph's light symmetry, the chief's proud 
mien — 
Each ray of beauty caught and mingled in the scene. 

XCIII. 

Art unobtrusive there ennobles form, 2 
Each pure chaste outline exquisitely flows ; 



1 " In the most broken fragment, the same great principle 
of life can be proved to exist, as in the most perfect figure," 
is one of the observations of Mr Haydon on the Elgin 
Marbles. 

2 " Every thing here breathes life, with a veracity, with an 
exquisite knowledge of art, but without the least ostentation 
or parade of it, which is concealed by consummate and mas- 
terly skill."— Canova's Letter to the Earl of Elgin. 



There e'en the steed, withhold expression warm, 3 
Is clothed with majesty, with being glows. 
One mighty mind hath harmonised the whole : 
Those varied groups the same bright impress 

bear ; 
One beam and essence of exalting soul 
Lives in the grand, the delicate, the fair ; 
And well that pageant of the glorious dead 
Blends us with nobler days, and loftier spirits fled. 



conquering Genius ! that couldst thus detain 
The subtle graces, fading as they rise, 
Eternalise expression's fleeting reign, 
Arrest warm life in all its energies, 
And fix them on the stone — thy glorious lot 
Might wake ambition's envy, and create 
Powers half divine : while nations are forgot, 
A thought, a dream of thine hath vanquish'd 

fate ! 
And when thy hand first gave its wonders birth, 
The realms that hail them now scarce claim'd a 

name on earth. 



"Wert thou some spirit of a purer sphere 
But once beheld, and never to return 1 
No — we may hail again thy bright career, 
Again on earth a kindred fire shall burn ! 
Though thy least relics, e'en in ruin, bear 
A stamp of heaven, that ne'er hath been re- 
new'd — 
A light inherent — let not man despair : 
Still be hope ardent, patience unsubdued ; 
For still is nature fair, and thought divine, 
And art hath won a world in models pure as 
thine. 4 



Gaze on yon forms, corroded and defaced — 
Yet there the germ of future glory lies ! 

3 Mr West, after expressing his admiration of the horse's 
head in Lord Elgin's collection of Athenian sculpture, thus 
proceeds : — " We feel the same, when we view the young 
equestrian Athenians, and, in observing them, we are in- 
sensibly carried on with the impression that they and their 
horses actually existed, as we see them, at the instant when 
they were converted into marble." — West's /Second Letter to 
Lord Elgin. 

4 Mr Flaxman thinks that sculpture has very greatly im- 
proved within these last twenty years, and that his opinion 
is not singular — because works of such prime importance as 
the Elgin Marbles could not remain in any country without 
a consequent improvement of the public taste, and the talents 
of the artist. — See the Evidence given in reply to Interroga- 
tories from the Committee on the Elgin Marbles. 



42 



MODERN" GREECE. 



Their virtual grandeur could not be erased ; 
It clothes them still, though veil'd from com- 
mon eyes. 
They once were gods and heroes 1 — and beheld 
As the blest guardians of their native scene ; 
And hearts of warriors, sages, bards, have swell'd 
With awe that own'd their sovereignty of mien. 
Ages have vanish'd since those hearts were cold, 
And still those shatter'd forms retain their god- 
like mould. 



Midst their bright kindred, from their marble 
throne 

They have look'd down on thousand storms of 
time ; 

Surviving power, and fame, and freedom flown, 

They still remain'd, still tranquilly sublime ! 

Till mortal hands the heavenly conclave marr'd. 

The Olympian groups have sunk, and are forgot — 

Not e'en their dust could weeping Athens guard; 

But these were destined to a nobler lot ! 

And they have borne, to light another land, 
The quenchless ray that soon shall gloriously ex- 
pand. 



Phidias ! supreme in thought ! what hand but 

thine, 
Inhuman works thus blending earth and heaven, 
O'er nature's truth had spread that grace divine, 
To mortal form immortal grandeur given ] 
What soul but thine, infusing all its power 
In these last monuments of matchless days, 
Could from their ruins bid young Genius tower, 
And Hope aspire to more exalted praise ; 
And guide deep Thought to that secluded height 
Where excellence is throned in purity of light ? 



And who can tell how pure, how bright a flame, 
Caught from these models, may illume the west] 
What British Angelo may rise to fame, 2 
On the free isle what beams of art may rest 1 

1 The Theseus and Ilissus, which are considered by Sir T. 
Lawrence, Mr Westmacott, and other distinguished artists, 
to be of a higher class than the Apollo Belvidere, " because 
there is in them a union of very grand form, with a more 
true and natural expression of the effect of action upon the 
human frame than there is in the Apollo, or any of the other 
more celebrated statues."— See The Evidence, %c. 

2 " Let us suppose a young man at this time in London, 
endowed with powers such as enabled Michael Angelo to 
advance the arts, as he did, by the aid of one mutilated speci- 
men of Grecian excellence in sculpture, to what an eminence 



Deem not, England ! that by climes confined, 
Genius and taste diffuse a partial ray ; 3 
Deem not the eternal energies of mind 
Sway'd by that sun whose doom is but decay ! 
Shall thought be foster'd but by skies serene ? 
No ! thou hast power to be what Athens e'er hath 
been. 



But thine are treasures oft unpiized, unknown, 
And cold neglect hath blighted many a mind, 
O'er whose young ardours had thy smile but 

shone, 
Their soaring flight had left a world behind ! 
And many a gifted hand, that might have 

wrought 
To Grecian excellence the breathing stone, 
Or each pure grace of Raphael's pencil caught, 
Leaving no record of its power, is gone ! 
While thou hast fondly sought, on distant coast, 
Gems far less rich than those, thus precious, and 

thus lost. 



Yet rise, Land, in all but art alone ! 
Bid the sole wreath that is not thine be won ! 
Fame dwells around thee — Genius is thine own; 
Call his rich blooms to life — be thou their sun ! 
So, should dark ages o'er thy glory sweep, 
Should thine e'er be as now are Grecian plains, 
Nations unborn shall track thine own blue 

deep 
To hail thy shore, to worship thy remains ; 
Thy mighty monuments with reverence trace, 
And cry, " This ancient soil hath nursed a glorious 

race ! " 

might not such a genius carry art, by the opportunity of 
studying those sculptures, in the aggregate, which adorned 
the temple of Minerva at Athens ? " — West's Second Letter 
to Lord Elgin. 

3 In allusion to the theories of Du Bos, Winckelmann, 
Montesquieu, &c, with regard to the inherent obstacles in 
the climate of England to the progress of genius and the arts. 
— See Hoare's Epochs of the Arts, p. 84, 85. 

EXTRACTS FROM CONTEMPORARY REVIEWS. 

Blackwood's Magazine. — " In our reviews of poetical pro- 
ductions, the better efforts of genius hold out to us a task at 
once more useful and delightful than those of inferior merit. 
In the former the beautiful predominate, and expose while 
they excuse the blemishes. But the public taste would receive 
no benefit from a detail of mediocrity, relieved only by the 
censure of faults uncompensated by excellencies. We have 
great pleasure in calling the attention of our readers to the 
beautiful poem before us, which we believe to be the work of 
the same lady who last year put her name to the second edition 
of another poem on a kindred subject, " The Restoration of the 



TRANSLATIONS. 



43 



TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS, AND OTHER POETS. 

" Siamo nati veramente in un secolo in cui gl'ingegni e gli studj degli uomini sono rivolti all* utilita. L'Agricoltura, Ie 
Arti, il Commercio acquistano tutto di novi lumi dalle ricerche de' Saggi ; e il voler farsi un nome tentando di dilettare, 
quand' altri v'aspira con piu giustizia giovando, sembra impresa dura e difficile." — Savioli. 



SONNET 70. 
" Na metade do ceo subido ardia." 

High in the glowing heavens, with cloudless beam, 

The sun had reach'd the zenith of his reign, 
And for the living fount, the gelid stream, 

Each flock forsook the herbage of the plain : 
Midst the dark foliage of the forest shade, 

The birds had shelter'd from the scorching ray ; 
Hush'd were their melodies — and grove and glade 

Eesounded but the shrill cicada's lay : 
When, through the grassy vale, a love-lorn swain, 
To seek the maid who but despised his pain, 

Breathing vain sighs of fruitless passion, roved: 
" Why pine for her," the slighted wanderer cried, 
" By whom thou art not loved 1 " and thus replied 

An echo's murmuring voice — "Thou art not 
loved/" 



Works of Art to Italy" — namely, Mrs Hemans of North Wales. 
That the author's fame has not altogether kept pace with her 
merit, we are inclined to think is a reproach to the public. 
Poetry is at present experiencing the fickleness of fashion, and 
may be said to have had its day. Very recently, the reading 
public, as the phrase is, was immersed in poetry, but seems 
to have had enough ; and, excepting always that portion of 
it who are found to relish genuine poetry on its own in- 
trinsic account, and will never tire of the exquisite enjoyment 
which it affords, the said public seldom read poetry at all. 

" But so little is that excitement which the bulk of readers 
covet necessarily connected with poetry, that these readers 
have tired even of romances in a metrical form, and are 
regarding all their late rhythmical favourites alike, with that 
sort of ingratitude with which repletion would lead them to 
regard a banquet when the dishes are removing from the 
table. But this is no proof that these great poets have for- 
feited their title to be admired. They are fixed orbs, which 
stand just where they did, and shine just as they were wont, 
although they seem to decline to the world, which revolves 
the opposite way. But if the world will turn from the poet, 
whatever be his merit, there is an end of his popularity, 
inasmuch as the most approved conductor of the latter is the 
multitude, as essentially as is the air of the sound of his voice. 
Profit will also fail from the lack of purchasers ; and poetry, 
high as it may intrinsically seem, must fall, commercially 
speaking, to its ancient proverbially unprofitable level. Yet 
poetry will still be poetry, however it may cease to pay; and 



SONNET 282. 

FEOM PSALM CXXXVII. 
" Na ribeira de Euprates assentado." 

Wkapt in sad musings, by Euphrates' stream 

I sat, retracing days for ever flown, 
While rose thine image on the exile's dream, 

much-loved Salem ! and thy glories gone : 
When they who caused the ceaseless tears I shed, 

Thus to their captive spoke — " Why sleep thy 
lays? 
Sing of thy treasures lost, thy splendour fled, 

And all thy triumphs in departed days ! 
Know'st thou not Harmony's resistless charm 
Can soothe each passion, and each grief disarm 1 

Sing then, and tears will vanish from thine eye." 
With sighs I answer'd, — " When the cup of woe 
Is fill'd, till misery's bitter draught o'erflow, 

The mourner's cure is not to sing — but die." 



although the acclaim of multitudes is one thing, and the still 
small voice of genuine taste and feeling another, the nobler 
incense of the latter will ever be its reward. 

" Our readers will now cease to wonder that an author like 
the present, who has had no higher aim than to regale the 
imagination with imagery, warm the heart with sentiment and 
feeling, and delight the ear with music, without the foreign 
aid of tale or fable, has hitherto written to a select few, and 
passed almost unnoticed by the multitude. 

" With the exception of Lord Byron, who has made the 
theme peculiarly his own, no one has more feelingly con- 
trasted ancient with modern Greece. 

" The poem on the Restoration of the Louvre Collection, 
has, of course, more allusions to ancient Rome ; and nothing 
can be more spirited than the passages in which the author 
invokes for modern Rome the return of her ancient glories. 
In a cursory but graphic manner, some of the most cele- 
brated of the ancient statues are described. Referring our 
readers, with great confidence, to the works themselves, our 
extracts may be limited." 

Edinburgh Monthly Review. — " The grand act of retribu- 
tion — the restoration of the treasures of the Louvre — occa- 
sioned Mrs Hemans'first publication. " Modern Greece " next 
appeared, and soared still higher into the regions of beauty 
and pathos. It is a highly promising symptom, that each 
new effort of her genius excels its predecessor. The present 
volume strikingly confirms this observation, and leads us to 
think that we have yet seen no more than the trials of her 
strength." 



44 



TRANSLATIONS. 



PART OF ECLOGUE 15. 

" Se Id no assento da maior alteza." 

If in thy glorious home above 

Thou still recallest earthly love, 

If yet retain'd a thought may be 

Of him whose heart hath bled for thee ; 

Remember still how deeply shrined 
Thine image in his joyless mind: 
Each well-known scene, each former care, 
Forgotten — thou alone art there ! 

Remember that thine eye-beam's light 
Hath fled for ever from his sight, 
And, with that vanish'd sunshine, lost 
Is every hope he cherish'd most. 

Think that his life, from thee apart, 
Is all but weariness of heart; 
Each stream, whose music once was dear, 
Now murmurs discord to his ear. 

Through thee, the morn, whose cloudless rays 
Woke him to joy in other days, 
Now, in the light of beauty drest, 
Brings but new sorrows to his breast. 

Through thee, the heavens are dark to him, 
The sun's meridian blaze is dim ; 
And harsh were e'en the bird of eve, 
But that her song still loves to grieve. 

All it hath been, his heart forgets, 
So alter'd by its long regrets ; 
Each wish is changed, each hope is o'er, 
And joy's light spirit wakes no more. 



SONNET 271. 

" A formosura desta fresca serra." 

This mountain-scene with sylvan grandeur cro wn'd, 

These chestnut -woods, in summer verdure 
bright ; 
These founts and rivulets, whose mingling sound 

Lulls every bosom to serene delight ; 
Soft on these hills the sun's declining ray ; 

This clime, where all is new ; these murmuring 
seas ; 
Flocks, to the fold that bend their lingering way ; 

Light clouds, contending with the genial breeze ; 



And all that Nature's lavish hands dispense, 
In gay luxuriance, charming every sense, 

Ne'er in thy absence can delight my breast : 
Nought, without thee, my weary soul beguiles : 
And joy may beam; yet, midst her brightest 
smiles, 

A secret grief is mine, that will not rest. 



SONNET 186. 
" Os olhos onde o casto Amor ardia." 

Those eyes, whence Love diffused his purest light, 

Proud in such beaming orbs his reign to show ; 
That face, with tints of mingling lustre bright, 

Where the rose mantled o'er the living snow; 
The rich redundance of that golden hair, 

Brighter than sunbeams of meridian day ; 
That form so graceful, and that hand so fair, 

Where now those treasures 1 — mouldering into 
clay! 
Thus, like some blossom prematurely torn, 
Hath young Perfection wither'd in its morn, 

Touch'd by the hand that gathers but to blight ! 
Oh, how could Love survive his bitter tears ! 
Shed, not for her, who mounts to happier spheres, 

But for his own sad fate, thus wrapt in starless 
night ! 



SONNET 108. 
" Brandas aguas do Tejo que passando." 

Fair Tajo ! thou whose calmly-flowing tide 

Bathes the fresh verdure of these lovely plains, 
Enlivening all where'er thy waves may glide, 

Flowers, herbage, flocks, and sylvan nymphs 
and swains. 
Sweet stream ! I know not when my steps again 

Shall tread thy shores; and while to part I 
mourn, 
I have no hope to meliorate my pain, 

No dream that whispers — I may yet return ! 
My frowning destiny, whose watchful care 
Forbids me blessings and ordains despair, 

Commands me thus to leave thee, and repine : 
And I must vainly mourn the scenes I fly, 
And breathe on other gales my plaintive sigh, 

And blend my tears with other waves than thine ! 



TRANSLATIONS. 45 




My lot would then be deeper woe — 


SONNET 23. 


And mine is grief that none must know. 


TO A LADY WHO DIED AT SEA. 


To mortal ears I may not dare 




Unfold the cause, the pain I prove ; 


" Chara minha inimiga, em cuja mao." 


'Twould plunge in ruin and despair 




Or me, or her I love. 


Thou to whose power my hopes, my joys I gave, 


My soul delights alone to bear 


fondly loved ! my bosom's dearest care ! 


Her silent, unsuspected woe, 


Earth, which denied to lend thy form a grave, 


And none shall pity, none shall know. 


Yields not one spell to soothe my deep despair ! 




Yes ! the wild seas entomb those charms divine, 


Thus buried in my bosom's urn, 


Dark o'er thy head th eternal billows roll ; 


Thus in my inmost heart conceal'd, 


But while one ray of life or thought is mine, 


Let me alone the secret mourn, 


Still shalt thou live, the inmate of my soul. 


In pangs unsoothed and unreveal'd. 


And if the tones of my uncultured song 


For whether happiness or woe, 


Have power the sad remembrance to prolong, 


Or life or death its power bestow, 


Of love so ardent, and of faith so pure ; 


It is what none on earth must know. 


Still shall my verse thine epitaph remain, 




Still shall thy charms be deathless in my strain, 




While Time, and Love, and Memory shall endure. 






SONNET 58. 




" Se as penas com que Amor tao mal me trata." 


SONNET 19. 






Should Love, the tyrant of my suffering heart 


" Alma minha gentil, que te partiste." 


Yet long enough protract his votary's days 




To see the lustre from those eyes depart, 


Spirit beloved ! whose wing so soon hath flown 


The lode-stars 1 now that fascinate my gaze ; 


The joyless precincts of this earthly sphere, 


To see rude Time the living roses blight 


How is yon Heaven eternally thine own, 


That o'er thy cheek their loveliness unfold, 


Whilst I deplore thy loss, a captive here ! 


And, all unpitying, change thy tresses bright 


Oh ! if allow'd in thy divine abode 


To silvery whiteness, from their native gold ; 


Of aught on earth an image to retain, 


Oh ! then thy heart an equal change will 


Remember still the fervent love which glow'd 


prove, 


In my fond bosom, pure from every stain. 


And mourn the coldness that repell'd my love, 


And if thou deem'd that all my faithful grief, 


When tears and penitence will all be vain ; 


Caused by thy loss, and hopeless of relief, 


And I shall see thee weep for days gone by, 


Can merit thee, sweet native of the skies ! 


And in thy deep regret and fruitless sigh, 


Oh ! ask of Heaven, which call'd thee soon away, 


Find amplest vengeance for my former pain. 


That I may join thee in those realms of day, 




Swiftly as thou hast vanish'd from mine eyes. 


■ ■ 





SONNET 178. 




" Ja cantei, ja chorei a dura guerra." 


" Que estranho caso de amor ! " 






Oft have I sung and mourn'd the bitter woes 


How strange a fate in love is mine ! 


Which love for years hath mingled with my fate, 


How dearly prized the pains I feel ! 


While he the tale forbade me to disclose, 


Pangs, that to rend my soul combine, 


That taught his votaries their deluded state. 


With avarice I conceal : 




For did the world the tale divine, 


1 " Your eyes are lode-stars." — Shakspeare. 



46 



TRANSLATIONS. 



Nymphs ! who dispense Castalia's living stream, 

Ye, who from Death oblivion's mantle steal, 
Grant me a strain in powerful tone supreme, 

Each grief by love inflicted to reveal : 
That those whose ardent hearts adore his sway, 
May hear experience breathe a warning lay — 

How false his smiles, his promises how vain ! 
Then, if ye deign this effort to inspire, 
When the sad task is o'er, my plaintive lyre, 

For ever hush'd, shall slumber in your fane. 



SONNET 80. 
" Corao quando do mar tempestuoso." 

Saved from the perils of the stormy wave, 

And faint with toil, the wanderer of the main, 
But just escaped from shipwreck's billowy grave, 

Trembles to hear its horrors named again. 
How warm his vow, that Ocean's fairest mien 

No more shall lure him from the smiles of home ! 
Yet soon, forgetting each terrific scene, 

Once more he turns, o'er boundless deeps to roam. 
Lady ! thus I, who vainly oft in flight 
Seek refuge from the dangers of thy sight, 

Make the firm vow to shun thee and be free : 
But my fond heart, devoted to its chain, 
Still draws me back where countless perils reign, 

And grief and ruin spread their snares for me. 



SONNET 239. 

FROM PSALM CXXXVII. 
" Em Babylonia sobre os rios, quando." 

Beside the streams of Babylon, in tears 

Of vain desire, we sat ; remembering thee, 
hallow'd Sion ! and the vanish'd years, 

When Israel's chosen sons were blest and free : 
Our harps, neglected and untuned, we hung 

Mute on the willows of the stranger's land ; 
When songs, like those that in thy fanes we sung, 

Our foes demanded from their captive band. 
" How shall our voices, on a foreign shore," 
(We answer'd those whose chains the exile wore,) 

" The songs of God, our sacred songs, renew ? 
tf I forget, midst grief and wasting toil, 
Thee, Jerusalem ! my native soil ! 

May my right hand forget its cunning too /" 



SONNET 128. 
" Huma admiravel herva se conhece." 

There blooms a plant, whose gaze from hour to 
hour 

Still to the sun with fond devotion turns, 
Wakes when Creation hails his dawning power, 

And most expands when most her idol burns : 
But when he seeks the bosom of the deep, 

His faithful plant's reflected charms decay ; 
Then fade her flowers, her leaves discolour'd weep, 

Still fondly pining for the vanish'd ray. 
Thou whom I love, the day-star of my sight ! 
When thy dear presence wakes me to delight, 

Joy in my soul unfolds her fairest flower : 
But in thy heaven of smiles alone it blooms, 
And, of their light deprived, in grief consumes, 

Born but to live within thine eye-beam's power. 



" Polomeu apartamento." 

Amidst the bitter tears that fell 

In anguish at my last farewell, 

Oh ! who would dream that joy could dwell, 

To make that moment bright 1 
Yet be my judge, each heart ! and say, 
Which then could most my bosom sway, 

Affliction or delight ? 

It was when Hope, oppress'd with woes, 
Seem'd her dim eyes in death to close, 
That rapture's brightest beam arose 

In sorrow's darkest night. 
Thus, if my soul survive that hour, 
'Tis that my fate o'ercame the power 

Of anguish with delight. 

For oh ! her love, so long unknown, 
She then confess'd was all my own, 
And in that parting hour alone 

Eeveal'd it to my sight. 
And now what pangs will rend my soul, 
Should fortune still, with stern control, 

Forbid me this delight ! 

I know not if my bliss were vain, 
For all the force of parting pain 
Forbade suspicious doubts to reign, 

When exiled from her sight : 
Yet now what double woe for me, 
Just at the close of eve, to see 

The dayspring of delight ! 



TRANSLATIONS. 47 




Some tangled thicket, desolate and drear, 


SONNET 205. 


Or deep wild forest, silent as the tomb, 




Boasting no verdure bright, no fountain clear, 


" Quem diz que Amor he falso, o enganoso." 


But darkly suited to my spirit's gloom 1 




That there, midst frowning rocks, alone with 


He who proclaims that Love is light and vain, 


grief 


Capricious, cruel, false in all his ways, 


Entomb'd in life, and hopeless of relief, 


Ah ! sure too well hath merited his pain, 


In lonely freedom I may breathe my woes. 


Too justly finds him all he thus portrays : 


For oh ! since nought my sorrows can allay, 


For Love is pitying, Love is soft and kind. 


There shall my sadness cloud no festal day, 


Believe not him who dares the tale oppose ; 


And days of gloom shall soothe me to repose. 


Oh ! deem him one whom stormy passions blind, 




One to whom earth and heaven may well be foes. 




If Love bring evils, view them all in me ! 


SONNET 278. 


Here let the world his utmost rigour see, 




His utmost power exerted to annoy : 


" Eu vivia de lagrimas isento." 


But all his ire is still the ire of love ; 




And such delight in all his woes I prove, 


Exempt from every grief, 'twas mine to live 


I would not change their pangs for aught of 


In dreams so sweet, enchantments so divine, 


other joy. 


A thousand joys propitious Love can give 




Were scarcely worth one rapturous pain of mine. 




Bound by soft spells, in dear illusions blest, 




I breathed no sigh for fortune or for power ; 


SONNET 133. 


No care intruding to disturb my breast, 




I dwelt entranced in Love's Elysian bower : 


" Doces e claras aguas do Mondego." 


But Fate, such transports eager to destroy, 




Soon rudely woke me from the dream of joy, 


Waves of Mondego ! brilliant and serene, 


And bade the phantoms of delight begone : 


Haunts of my thought, where memory fondly 


Bade hope and happiness at once depart, 


strays, 


And left but memory to distract my heart, 


Where hope allured me with perfidious mien, 


Retracing every hour of bliss for ever flown. 


Witching my soul, in long-departed days ; 




Yes, I forsake your banks ! but still my heart 





Shall bid remembrance all your charms restore, 




And, suffering not one image to depart, 


" Mi nueve y dulce querella." 


Find lengthening distance but endear you more. 




Let Fortune's will, through many a future day, 


No searching eye can pierce the veil 


To distant realms this mortal frame convey, 


That o'er my secret love is thrown ; 


Sport of each wind, and tost on every wave ; 


No outward signs reveal its tale, 


Yet my fond soul, to pensive memory true, 


But to my bosom known. 


On thought's light pinion still shall fly to you, 


Thus, like the spark whose vivid light 


And still, bright waters ! in your current lave. 


In the dark flint is hid from sight, 




It dwells within, alone. 


SONNET 181. 


METASTASIO. 


" Onde acharei lugar tao apartado." 


" Dunque si sfoga in pianto." 


Where shall I find some desert-scene so rude, 


In tears, the heart oppress'd with grief 


Where loneliness so undisturb'd may reign, 


Gives language to its woes ; 


That not a step shall ever there intrude 


In tears, its fulness finds relief, 


Of roving man, or nature's savage train — 


When rapture's tide o'erflows ! 



48 TRANSLATIONS. 


Who, then, unclouded bliss would seek 
On this terrestrial sphere ; 


" Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine." 


When e'en Delight can only speak, 


Fortune ! why thus, where'er my footsteps tread, 


Like Sorrow — in a tear 1 


Obstruct each path with rocks and thorns like 




these 1 





Think'st thou that / thy threatening mien shall 


" Al furor d'avversa Sorte." 


dread, 
Or toil and pant thy waving locks to seize % 


He shall not dread Misfortune's angry mien, 


Reserve the frown severe, the menace rude, 


Nor feebly sink beneath her tempest rude, 


For vassal-spirits that confess thy sway ! 


Whose soul hath learn'd, through many a trying 


My constant soul should triumph unsubdued, 


scene, 


Were the wide universe destruction's prey. 


To smile at fate, and suffer unsubdued. 


Am I to conflicts new, in toils untried 1 




No ! I have long thine utmost power defied, 


In the rough school of billows, clouds, and storms, 


And drawn fresh energies from every fight. 


Nursed and matured, the pilot learns his art : 


Thus from rude strokes of hammers and the wheel, 


Thus Fate's dread ire, by many a conflict, forms 


With each successive shock the temper'd steel 


The lofty spirit and enduring heart ! 


More keenly piercing proves, more dazzling 




bright. 


" Quella onda die ruina." 


" Parlagli d'un periglio." 


The torrent wave, that breaks with force 


Wouldst thou to Love of danger speak 1 ? — 


Impetuous down the Alpine height, 


Veil'd are his eyes, to perils blind ! 


Complains and struggles in its course, 


Wouldst thou from Love a reason seek 1 — 


But sparkles, as the diamond bright. 


He is a child of wayward mind ! 


The stream in shadowy valley deep 


But with a doubt, a jealous fear, 


May slumber in its narrow bed ; 


Inspire him once — the task is o'er ; 


But silent, in unbroken sleep, 


His mind is keen, his sight is clear, 


Its lustre and its life are fled. 


No more an infant, blind no more. 





" Sprezza il furor del vento." 


" Leggiadra rosa, le cui pure foglie." 






Unbending midst the wintry skies, 


Sweet rose ! whose tender foliage to expand 


Rears the firm oak his vigorous form, 


Her fostering dews the Morning lightly shed, 


And stern in rugged strength, defies 


Whilst gales of balmy breath thy blossoms fann'd, 


The rushing of the storm. 


And o'er thy leaves the soft suffusion spread : 




That hand, whose care withdrew thee from the 


Then sever'd from his native shore, 


ground, 


O'er ocean-worlds the sail to bear, 


To brighter worlds thy favour'd charms hath 


Still with those winds he braved before, 


borne ; 


He proudly struggles there. 


Thy fairest buds, with grace perennial crown'd, 




There breathe and bloom, released from every 





thorn. 




Thus, far removed, and now transplanted flower ! 


" Sol pud dir che sia contento." 


Exposed no more to blast or tempest rude, 




Shelter'd with tenderest care from frost or shower, 


Oh ! those alone whose sever'd hearts 


And each rough season's chill vicissitude, 


Have mourn'd through lingering years in vain, 


Now may thy form in bowers of peace assume 


Can tell what bliss fond Love imparts, 


Immortal fragrance, and unwithering bloom. 


When Fate unites them once again. 



TRANSLATIONS. 49 


Sweet is the sigh, and blest the tear, 


Triumphs far less than suffering virtue shine ! 


Whose language hails that moment bright, 


And on the spoilers high revenge is thine, 


When past afflictions but endear 


While thy strong spirit unsubdued remains. 


The presence of delight ! 


And lo ! fair Liberty rejoicing flies 




To kiss each noble relic, while she cries, 





"Hail! thoughin ruins, thou wert ne'er in chains.'" 


" Ah ! frenate le piante imbelle ! " 





Ah ! cease — those fruitless tears restrain ! 


LOPE DE VEGA. 


I go misfortune to defy, 




To smile at fate with proud disdain, 


" Estese el cortesano." 


To triumph — not to die ! 






Let the. vain courtier waste his days, 


I with fresh laurels go to crown 


Lured by the charms that wealth displays, 


My closing days at last, 


The couch of down, the board of costly fare; 


Securing all the bright renown 


Be his to kiss th' ungrateful hand 


Acquired in dangers past. 


That waves the sceptre of command, 




And rear full many a palace in the air ; 





Whilst I enjoy, all unconfined, 




The glowing sun, the genial wind, 


VINCENZO DA FILICAJA. 


And tranquil hours, to rustic toil assign'd ; 




And prize far more, in peace and health, 


" Italia ! Italia ! tu cui did la sorte." 


Contented indigence than joyless wealth. 


Italia ! Italia ! thou, so graced 


Not mine in Fortune's fane to bend, 


With ill-starr'd beauty, which to thee hath been 


At Grandeur's altar to attend, 


A dower whose fatal splendour may be traced 


Reflect his smile, and tremble at his frown ; 


In the deep-graven sorrows of thy mien ; 


Nor mine a fond aspiring thought, 


Oh that more strength, or fewer charms were thine ! 


A wish, a sigh, a vision, fraught 


That those might fear thee more, or love thee less, 


With Fame's bright phantom, Glory's deathless 


Who seem to worship at thy radiant shrine, 


crown ! 


Then pierce thee with the death-pang's bitter- 


Nectareous draughts and viands pure 


ness! 


Luxuriant nature will insure ; 


Not then would foreign hosts have drain'd the tide 


These the clear fount and fertile field 


Of that Eridanus thy blood hath dyed : 


Still to the wearied shepherd yield ; 


Nor from the Alps would legions, still renew'd, 


And when repose and visions reign, 


Pour down ; nor wouldst thou wield an alien brand, 


Then we are equals all, the monarch and the swain. 


And fight thy battles with the stranger's hand, 




Still, still a slave, victorious or subdued ! 








FRANCISCO MANUEL. 


PASTORINI. 


ON ASCENDING- A HILL LEADING TO A CONVENT. 


" Genova mia ! se con asciutto ciglio." 


" No baxes temeroso, o peregrino !" 


If thus thy fallen grandeur I behold, 


Pause not with lingering foot, pilgrim ! here ; 


My native Genoa ! with a tearless eye, 


Pierce the deep shadows of the mountain-side ; 


Think not thy son's ungrateful heart is cold ; 


Firm be thy step, thy heart unknown to fear — 


But know — I deem rebellious every sigh ! 


To brighter worlds this thorny path will guide. 


Thy glorious ruins proudly I survey, 


Soon shall thy feet approach the calm abode, 


Trophies of firm resolve, of patriot might ! 


So near the mansions of supreme delight ; 


And in each trace of devastation's way, [sight. 


Pause not, but tread this consecrated road — 


Thy worth, thy courage, meet my wandering 


'Tis the dark basis of the heavenly height. 



50 



TRANSLATIONS. 



Behold, to cheer thee on the toilsome way, 
How many a fountain glitters down the hill ! 

Pure gales, inviting, softly round thee play, 
Bright sunshine guides — and wilt thou linger still 1 ? 
Oh ! enter there, where, freed from human strife, 

Hope is reality, and time is life. 



DELLA CASA. 



" Questi palazzi, e queste logge or colte." 

These marble domes, by wealth and genius graced, 

With sculptured forms, bright hues, and Parian 
stone, 
Were once rude cabins midst a lonely waste, 

Wild shores of solitude, and isles unknown. 
Pure from each vice, 'twas here a venturous train 

Fearless in fragile barks explored the sea ; 
Not theirs a wish to conquer or to reign, 

They sought these island precincts — to be free. 
Ne'er in their souls ambition's flame arose, 
No dream of avarice broke their calm repose ; 

Fraud, more than death, abhorr'd each artless 
breast : 
Oh ! now, since fortune gilds their brightening day, 
Let not those virtues languish and decay, 

O'erwhelm'd by luxury, and by wealth opprest! 



IL MAECHESE CORNELIO BENTIVOGLIO. 

" L'anima bella, che dal vero Eliso." 

The sainted spirit which, from bliss on high, 

Descends like dayspring to my favour'd sight, 
Shines in such noontide radiance of the sky, 

Scarce do I know that form, intensely bright ! 
But with the sweetness of her well-known smile, 

That smile of peace! she bids my doubts depart, 
And takes my hand, and softly speaks the while, 

And heaven's full glory pictures to my heart. 
Beams of that heaven in her my eyes behold, 
And now, e'en now, in thought my wings unfold, 

To soar with her, and mingle with the blest ! 
But ah ! so swift her buoyant pinion flies, 
That I, in vain aspiring to the skies, 

Fall to my native sphere, by earthly bonds 
deprest. 



QUEVEDO. 

ROME BURIED IN HER OWN RUINS. 

" Buscas en Roma a Roma, o peregrino ! " 

Amidst these scenes, pilgrim ! seek'st thou 
Rome? 

Vain is thy search — the pomp of Rome is fled; 
Her silent Aventine is glory's tomb ; 

Her walls, her shrines, but relics of the dead. 
That hill, where Caesars dwelt in other days, 

Forsaken mourns, where once it tower'd sublime; 
Each mouldering medal now far less displays 

The triumphs won by Latium than by Time. 
Tiber alone survives — the passing wave 
That bathed her towers now murmurs by her 
grave, 

Wailing with plaintive sound her fallen fanes. 
Rome ! of thine ancient grandeur all is past, 
That seem'd for years eternal framed to last : 

Nought but the wave — a fugitive, remains. 



EL CONDE JUAN DE TARSIS. 

" Tu, que la dulce vida en tiernas anos." 

Thou, who hast fled from life's enchanted bowers, 

In youth's gay spring, in beauty's glowing morn, 
Leaving thy bright array, thy path of flowers, 

For the rude convent-garb and couch of thorn; 
Thou that, escaping from a world of cares, 

Hast found thy haven in devotion's fane, 
As to the port the fearful bark repairs 

To shun the midnight perils of the main — 
Now the glad hymn, the strain of rapture pour, 

While on thy soul the beams of glory rise ! 
For if the pilot hail the welcome shore 

With shouts of triumph swelling to the skies, 
Oh ! how shouldst thou the exulting psean raise, 
Now heaven's bright harbour opens on thy gaze ! 



TORQUATO TASSO. 

" Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa." 

Thou in thy morn wert like a glowing rose 
To the mild sunshine only half display 'd, 

That shunn'd its bashful graces to disclose, 
And in its veil of verdure sought a shade 



TRANSLATIONS. 



51 



Or like Aurora did thy charms appear, 

(Since mortal form ne'er vied with aught so 
bright,) 
Aurora, smiling from her tranquil sphere, 

O'er vale and mountain shedding dew and light. 
Now riper years have doom'd no grace to fade ; 
Nor youthful charms, in all their pride array 'd, 

Excel, or equal, thy neglected form. 
Thus, full expanded, lovelier is the flower, 
And the bright day-star, in its noontide hour, 

More brilliant shines, in genial radiance warm. 



BERNARDO TASSO. 

" Quest' ombra che giammai non vide il sole." 

This green recess, where through the bowery gloom 

Ne'er, e'en at noontide hours, the sunbeam 
play'd, 
Where violet-beds in soft luxuriance bloom 

Midst the cool freshness of the myrtle shade ; 
Where through the grass a sparkling fountain steals, 

Whose murmuring wave, transparent as it flows, 
No more its bed of yellow sand conceals 

Than the pure crystal hides the glowing rose ; 
This bower of peace, thou soother of our care, 
God of soft slumbers and of visions fair ! 

A lowly shepherd consecrates to thee ! 
Then breathe around some spell of deep repose, 
And charm his eyes in balmy dew to close, 

Those eyes, fatigued with grief, from tear-drops 
never free. 



PETRARCH. 

" Chi vuol veder quantunque pu6 natura." 

Thou that wouldst mark, in form of human birth, 

All heaven and nature's perfect skill combined, 
Come gaze on her, the day-star of the earth, 

Dazzling, not me alone, but all mankind : 
And haste ! for Death, who spares the guilty long, 

First calls the brightest and the best away ; 
And to her home, amidst the cherub throng, 

The angelic mortal flies, and will not stay ! 
Haste ! and each outward charm, each mental grace, 
In one consummate form thine eye shall trace, 

Model of loveliness, for earth too fair ! 
Then thou shalt own how faint my votive lays, 
My spirit dazzled by perfection's blaze : 

But if thou still delay, for long regret prepare. 



" Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde." 

If to the sighing breeze of summer hours 

Bend the green leaves ; if mourns a plaintive bir d ; 
Or from some fount's cool margin, fringed with 
flowers, 

The soothing murmur of the wave is heard ; 
Her whom the heavens reveal, the earth denies, 

I see and hear : though dwelling far above, 
Her spirit, still responsive to my sighs, 

Visits the lone retreat of pensive love. 
"Why thus in grief consume each fruitless day," 
(Her gentle accents thus benignly say,) 

"While from thine eyes the tear unceasing 
flows'? 
Weep not for me, who, hastening on my flight, 
Died, to be deathless ; and on heavenly light 

Whose eyes but open'd, when they seem'd to 
close ! " 



VERSI SPAGNUOLI DI PIETRO BEMBO. 

" O Muerte ! que sueles ser." 

Thou, the stern monarch of dismay, 
Whom nature trembles to survey, 
Death ! to me, the child of grief, 
Thy welcome power would bring relief, 

Changing to peaceful slumber many a care. 
And though thy stroke may thrill with pain 
Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein ; 
The pangs that bid existence close, 
Ah ! sure are far less keen than those 

Which cloud its lingering moments with despair 



FRANCESCO LORENZINI. 

" Zefiretto, che movendo vai." 

Sylph of the breeze ! whose dewy pinions light 

Wave gently round the tree I planted here, 
Sacred to her whose soul hath wing'd its flight 

To the pure ether of her lofty sphere ; 
Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale ! 

To fan its leaves in summer's noontide hour ; 
Be it thy care that wintry tempests fail 

To rend its honours from the sylvan bower. 
Then shall it spread, and rear th' aspiring form, 
Pride of the wood, secure from every storm, 



52 



TRANSLATIONS. 



Graced with her name, a consecrated tree ! 
So may thy Lord, thy monarch of the wind, 
Ne'er with rude chains thy tender pinions bind, 

But grant thee still to rove, a wanderer wild 
and free ! 



GESNER. 

MORNING SONG. 

" Willkommen, fruhe morgensonn." 

Hail ! morning sun, thus early bright ; 

Welcome, sweet dawn ! thou younger day ! 
Through the dark woods that fringe the height, 
Beams forth, e'en now, thy ray. 

Bright on the dew it sparkles clear, 

Bright on the water's glittering fall, 
And life, and joy, and health appear, 
Sweet Morning ! at thy call. 

Now thy fresh breezes lightly spring 

From beds of fragrance, where they lay, 
And roving wild on dewy wing, 
Drive slumber far away. 

Fantastic dreams, in swift retreat, 

Now from each mind withdraw their spell ; 
While the young loves delighted meet, 
On Rosa's cheek to dwell. 

Speed, zephyr ! kiss each opening flower, 

Its fragrant spirit make thine own ; 
Then wing thy way to Rosa's bower, 
Ere her light sleep is flown. 

There, o'er her downy pillow fly, 

Wake the sweet maid to life and day ; 
Breathe on her balmy lip a sigh, 
And o'er her bosom play ; 

And whisper, when her eyes unveil, 

That I, since morning's earliest call, 
Have sigh'd her name to ev'ry gale 
By the lone waterfall. 



GERMAN SONG. 
" Madchen, lernet Amor kennen." 

Listen, fair maid ! my song shall tell 
How Love may still be known full well- 



His looks the traitor prove. 
Dost thou not see that absent smile, 
That fiery glance replete with guile ] 

Oh ! doubt not then — 'tis Love. 

When varying still the sly disguise, 
Child of caprice, he laughs and cries, 

Or with complaint would move ; 
To-day is bold, to-morrow shy, 
Changing each hour, he knows not why, 

Oh ! doubt not then — 'tis Love. 

There's magic in his every wile, 
His lips, well practised to beguile, 

Breathe roses when they move ; 
See ! now with sudden rage he burns, 
Disdains, implores, commands, by turns. 

Oh ! doubt not then — 'tis Love. 

He comes, without the bow and dart, 
That spare not e'en the purest heart ; 

His looks the traitor prove ; 
That glance is fire, that mien is guile, 
Deceit is lurking in that smile — 

Oh ! trust him not — 'tis Love ! 



CHAULIEU. 

" Grotte, d'ou sort ce clair ruisseau." 

Thou grot, whence flows this limpid spring, 
Its margin fringed with moss and flowers, 
Still bid its voice of murmurs bring 
Peace to my musing hours. 

Sweet Fontenay ! where first for me 

The dayspring of existence rose, 
Soon shall my dust return to thee, 
And midst my sires repose. 

Muses ! that wateh'd my childhood's morn, 

Midst these wild haunts, with guardian eye — 
Fair trees ! that here beheld me born, 
Soon shall ye see me die. 



GARCILASO DE VEGA. 

" Coyed de vuestra alegre prima vera." 

Enjoy the sweets of life's luxuriant May 
Ere envious Age is hastening on his way 



TRANSLATIONS. 



53 



With snowy wreaths to crown the beauteous 
brow ; 
The rose will fade when storms assail the year, 
And Time, who changeth not his swift career, 

Constant in this, will change all else below ! 



LORENZO DE MEDICI. 

VIOLETS* 
" Non di verdi giardin ornati e colti." 

We come not, fair one ! to thy hand of snow 

From the soft scenes by Culture's hand array'd; 
Not rear'd in bowers where gales of fragrance blow, 

But in dark glens, and depths of forest shade ! 
There once, as Venus wander'd, lost in woe, 

To seek Adonis through th' entangled wood, 
Piercing her foot, a thorn that lurk'd below 

With print relentless drew celestial blood ! 
Then our light stems, with snowy blossoms fraught, 
Bending to earth, each precious drop we caught, 

Imbibing thence our bright purpureal dyes ; 
We were not foster'd in our shadowy vales 
By guided rivulets or summer gales— 

Our dew and air have been Love's balmy tears 
and sighs ! 



PINDEMONTE. 

ON THE HEBE OF CANOVA. 
" Dove per te, celeste ancilla, or vassi ? " 

Whithee, celestial maid, so fast away 1 

What lures thee from the banquet of the skies ? 
How canst thou leave thy native realms of day 

For this low sphere, this vale of clouds and sighs ] 
thou, Canova ! soaring high above 

Italian art — with Grecian magic vying ! 
We knew thy marble glow'd with life and love, 

But who had seen thee image footsteps flying ? 



Here to each eye the wind seems gently playing 
With the light vest, its wavy folds arraying 

In many a line of undulating grace; 
While Nature, ne'er her mighty laws suspending, 
Stands, before marble thus with motion blending, 

One moment lost in thought, its hidden cause 
to trace. 

[A volume of translations published in 1818, might have 
been called by anticipation, " Lays of many Lands." At the 
time now alluded to, her inspirations were chiefly derived 
from classical subjects. The "graceful superstitions" of 
Greece, and the sublime patriotism of Rome, held an influ- 
ence over her thoughts which is evinced by many of the works 
of this period — such as " The Restoration of the Works of Art 
to Italy," " Modern Greece," and several of the poems which 
formed the volume entitled " Tales and Historic Scenes." 

" Apart from all intercourse," says Delta, " with literary 
society, and acquainted only by name and occasional corre- 
spondence with any of the distinguished authors of whom 
England has to boast, Mrs Hemans, during the progress of 
her poetical career, had to contend with more and greater 
obstacles than usually stand in the path of female authorship. 
To her praise be it spoken, therefore, that it was to her own 
merit alone, wholly independent of adventitious circum- 
stances, that she was indebted for the extensive share of popu- 
larity which her compositions ultimately obtained. From 
this studious seclusion were given forth the two poems which 
first permanently elevated her among the writers of her age, 
— the ' Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,' and 
' Modern Greece.' In these the maturity of her intellect 
appears ; and she makes us feel, that she has marked out a 
path for herself through the regions of song. The versification 
is high-toned and musical, in accordance with the sentiment 
and subject ; and in every page we have evidence, not only of 
taste and genius, but of careful elaboration and research. 
These efforts were favourably noticed by Lord Byron ; and 
attracted the admiration of Shelley. Bishop Heber and other 
judicious and intelligent counsellors cheered her on by their 
approbation : the reputation which, through years of silent 
study and exertion, she had, no doubt, sometimes with 
brightened and sometimes with doubtful hopes, looked for- 
ward to as a sufficient great reward, was at length unequivo- 
cally and unreluctantly accorded her by the world; and, 
probably, this was the happiest period of her life. The 
Translations from Camoeus ; the prize poem of Wallace, as 
also that of Dartmoor, the Tales and Historic Scenes, and 
the Sceptic, may all be referred to this epoch of her literary 
career." — Biographical Sketch, prefixed to Poetical Remains, 
1836'. 

In reference to the same period of Mrs Hemans' career, 
the late acute and accomplished Miss Jewsbury (afterwards 
Mrs Fletcher) has the following judicious observations : — 

" At this stage of transition, her poetry was correct, classi- 
cal, and highly polished ; but it wanted warmth : it partook 
more of the nature of statuary than of painting. She fettered 
her mind with facts and authorities, and drew upon her me- 
mory when she might have relied upon her imagination. She 
was diffident of herself, and, to quote her own admission, 
' loved to repose under the shadow of mighty names.' " — 
Athenceum, Feb. 1831.] 



54 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


LINES 


DIRGE OF A CHILD. 


WRITTEN IN A HERMITAGE ON THE SEA-SHORE. 






No bitter tears for thee be shed, 


wanderer ! would thy heart forget 


Blossom of being ! seen and gone ! 


Each earthly passion and regret, 


With flowers alone we strew thy bed, 


And would thy wearied spirit rise 


blest departed One ! 


To commune with its native skies ; 


Whose all of life, a rosy ray, 


Pause for a while, and deem it sweet 


Blush'd into dawn and pass'd away. 


To linger in this calm retreat ; 




And give thy cares, thy griefs, a short suspense, 


Yes ! thou art fled, ere guilt had power 


Amidst wild scenes of lone magnificence. 


To stain thy cherub-soul and form, 




Closed is the soft ephemeral flower 


Unmix'd with aught of meaner tone, 


That never felt a storm ! 


Here Nature's voice is heard alone : 


The sunbeam's smile, the zephyr's breath, 


When the loud storm, in wrathful hour, 


All that it knew from birth to death. 


Is rushing on its wing of power, 




And spirits of the deep awake, 


Thou wert so like a form of light, 


And surges foam, and billows break, 


That heaven benignly call'd thee hence, 


And rocks and ocean-caves around 


Ere yet the world could breathe one blight 


Reverberate each awful sound — 


O'er thy sweet innocence : 


That mighty voice, with all its dread control, 


And thou, that brighter home to bless, 


To loftiest thought shall wake thy thrilling soul. 


Art pass'd, with all thy loveliness ! 


But when no more the sea-winds rave, 


Oh ! hadst thou still on earth remain'd, 


When peace is brooding on the wave, 


Vision of beauty ! fair, as brief ! 


And from earth, air, and ocean rise 


How soon thy brightness had been stain'd 


No sounds but plaintive melodies ; 


With passion or with grief ! 


Soothed by their softly mingling swell, 


Now not a sullying breath can rise 


As daylight bids the world farewell, 


To dim thy glory in the skies. 


The rustling wood, the dying breeze, 




The faint low rippling of the seas, 


We rear no marble o'er thy tomb — 


A tender calm shall steal upon thy breast, 


No sculptured image there shall mourn ; 


A gleam reflected from the realms of rest. 


Ah ! fitter far the vernal bloom 




Such dwelling to adorn. 


Is thine a heart the world hath stung, 


Fragrance, and flowers, and dews, must be 


Friends have deceived, neglect hath wrung ? 


The only emblems meet for thee. 


Hast thou some grief that none may know, 




Some lonely, secret, silent woe 1 


Thy grave shall be a blessed shrine, 


Or have thy fond affections fled 


Adorn'd with Nature's brightest wreath , 


From earth, to slumber with the dead 1 — 


Each glowing season shall combine 


Oh ! pause awhile — the world disown, 


Its incense there to breathe ; 


And dwell with Nature's self alone ! 


And oft, upon the midnight air, 


And though no more she bids arise 


Shall viewless harps be murmuring there. 


Thy soul's departed energies, 




And though thy joy of life is o'er, 


And oh ! sometimes in visions blest, 


Beyond her magic to restore ; 


Sweet spirit ! visit our repose ; 


Yet shall her spells o'er every passion steal, 


And bear, from thine own world of rest, 


And soothe the wounded heart they cannot heal. 


Some balm for human woes ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



55 



What form more lovely could be given 
Than thine to messenger of heaven 1 x 



INVOCATION. 

Hush'd is the world in night and sleep — 

Earth, sea, and air are still as death ; 
Too rude to break a calm so deep 
Were music's faintest breath. 
Descend, bright visions ! from aerial bowers, 
Descend to gild your own soft silent hours. 

In hope or fear, in toil or pain, 

The weary day have mortals pass'd ; 
Now, dreams of bliss ! be yours to reign, 
And all your spells around them cast ; 
Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the 

tear, 
And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere. 

Oh, bear your softest balm to those 

Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead ! 
To them that world of peace disclose 
Where the bright soul is fled : 
Where Love, immortal in his native clime, 
Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from 
time. 

Or to his loved, his distant land 

On your light wings the exile bear, 
To feel once more his heart expand 
In his own genial mountain-air ; 
Hear the wild echoes well-known strains repeat, 
And bless each note, as heaven's own music 
sweet. 

But oh ! with fancy's brightest ray, 

Blest dreams ! the bard's repose illume ; 
Bid forms of heaven around him play, 
And bowers of Eden bloom ! 
And waft his spirit to its native skies 
Who finds no charm in life's realities. 

No voice is on the air of night, 

Through folded leaves no murmurs creep, 
Nor star nor moonbeam's trembling light 
Falls on the placid brow of sleep. 
Descend, bright visions ! from your airy bower : 
Dark, silent, solemn is your favourite hour. 

1 Vide Annotation from Quarterly Review, p. 62. 



TO THE MEMORY OF 

GENERAL SIR E— D P— K— M. 2 

Beave spirit ! mourn'd with fond regret, 

Lost in life's pride, in valour's noon, 
Oh, who could deem thy star should set 
So darkly and so soon ! 

Fatal, though bright, the fire of mind 

Which mark'd and closed thy brief career, 
And the fair wreath, by Hope entwined, 
Lies wither'd on thy bier. 

The soldier's death hath been thy doom, 
The soldier's tear thy mead shall be ; 
Yet, son of war ! a prouder tomb 
Might Fate have rear'd for thee. 

Thou shouldst have died, high-soul'd chief ! 

In those bright days of glory fled, 
When triumph so prevail'd o'er grief 
We scarce could mourn the dead. 

Noontide of fame ! each tear-drop then 

Was worthy of a warrior's grave : 
When shall affection weep again 
So proudly o'er the brave ? 

There, on the battle-fields of Spain, 

Midst Roncesvalles' mountain-scene, 
Or on Vitoria's blood-red plain, 
Meet had thy deathbed been. 

2 Major-general Sir Edward Pakenham, the gallant officer 
to whose memory these verses are dedicated, fell at the head 
of the British troops in the unfortunate attack on New 
Orleans, 8th January 1814. " Six thousand combatants on 
the British side," says Mr Alison, " were in the field : a 
slender force to attack double their number, intrenched to 
the teeth in works bristling with bayonets and loaded with 
heavy artillery." — History of Europe, vol. x. p. 743. 

The death of Sir Edward is thus alluded to in the official 
account of General Keane, communicating the result of the 
action: — "The advancing columns were discernible from 
the enemy's line at more than two hundred yards' distance, 
when a destructive fire was instantly opened, not only from 
all parts of the enemy's line, but from the battery on the 
Opposite side of the river. The gallant Pakenham, who, 
during his short but brilliant career, was always foremost in 
the path of glory and of danger, galloped forward to the 
front, to animate his men by his presence. He had reached 
the crest of the glacis, and was in the act of cheering his 
troops with his hat off, when he received two balls, one in 
the knee and another in the body. He fell into the arms 
of Major Macdougal, his aide-de-camp, and almost instantly 
expired."— Edinr. An. Regist. 1815, p. 356. 



56 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



We mourn not that a hero's life 

Thus in its ardent prime should close ; 
Hadst thou but fallen in nobler strife, 
But died midst conquer'd foes ! 

Yet hast thou still (though victory's flame 

In that last moment cheer'd thee not) 
Left Glory's isle another name, 
That ne'er may be forgot : 

And many a tale of triumph won 

Shall breathe that name in Memory's ear, 
And long may England mourn a son 
Without reproach or fear. 



TO THE MEMOHY OF 

SIR H— Y E— LL— S, 

WHO FELL IN THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 

" Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is 
around them."— Ossian. 

Weep'st thou for him, whose doom was seal'd 
On England's proudest battle-field 1 
For him, the lion-heart, who died 
In victory's full resistless tide 1 

Oh, mourn him not ! 
By deeds like his that field was won, 
And Fate could yield to Valour's son 

No brighter lot. 

He heard his band's exulting cry, 
He saw the vanquish'd eagles fly ; 
And envied be his death of fame ! 
It shed a sunbeam o'er his name 

That nought shall dim : 
No cloud obscured his glory's day, 
It saw no twilight of decay. 

Weep not for him ! 

And breathe no dirge's plaintive moan, 
A hero claims far loftier tone ! 
Oh, proudly shall the war-song swell, 
Recording how the mighty fell 

In that dread hour, 
When England, midst the battle-storm — 
The avenging angel — rear'd her form 

In tenfold power. 

Yet, gallant heart ! to swell thy praise, 
Vain were the minstrel's noblest lays ; 



Since he, the soldier's guiding star, 
The Victor-chief, the lord of war, 

Has own'd thy fame : 
And oh ! like his approving word, 
What trophied marble could record 

A warrior's name ? 



GUERILLA SONG. 

FOUNDED ON THE STORY RELATED OF THE SPANISH 
PATRIOT MINA. 

Oh ! forget not the hour when through forest 

and vale 
We return'd with our chief to his dear native halls; 
Through the woody sierra there sigh'd not a gale, 
And the moonbeam was bright on his battlement- 
walls ; 
And nature lay sleeping in calmness and light, 
Round the home of the valiant, that rose on our 
sight. 

We enter'd that home — all was loneliness round, 
The stillness, the darkness, the peace of the grave; 
Not a voice, not a step, bade its echoes resound : 
Ah, such was the welcome that waited the brave ! 
For the spoilers had pass'd, like the poison-wind's 

breath, 
And the loved of his bosom lay silent in death. 

Oh ! forget not that hour — let its image be near, 
In the light of our mirth, in the dreams of our rest, 
Let its tale awake feelings too deep for a tear, 
And rouse into vengeance each arm and each breast, 
Till cloudless the dayspring of liberty shine 
O'er the plains of the olive and hills of the vine. 



THE AGED INDIAN. 

Warriors ! my noon of life is past, 
The brightness of my spirit flown ; 

I crouch before the wintry blast, 
Amidst my tribe I dwell alone ; 

The heroes of my youth are fled, 

They rest among the warlike dead. 

Ye slumberers of the narrow cave ! 

My kindred chiefs in days of yore ! 
Ye fill an unremember'd grave, 

Your fame, your deeds, are known no more. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



57 



The records of your wars are gone, 
Your names forgot by all but one. 

Soon shall that one depart from earth, 
To join the brethren of his prime ; 

Then will the memory of your birth 
Sleep with the hidden things of time. 

With him, ye sons of former days ! 

Fades the last glimmering of your praise. 

His eyes, that hail'd your spirits' flame, 
Still kindling in the combat's shock, 

Have seen, since darkness veil'd your fame, 
Sons of the desert and the rock ! 

Another and another race 

Eise to the battle and the chase. 

Descendants of the mighty dead ! 

Fearless of heart, and firm of hand ! 
Oh, let me join their spirits fled — 

Oh ! send me to their shadowy land. 
Age hath not tamed Ontara's heart — 
He shrinks not from the friendly dart. 

These feet no more can chase the deer, 
The glory of this arm is flown ; — ■ 

"Why should the feeble linger here 
When all the pride of life is gone 1 

Warriors ! why still the stroke deny ] 

Think ye Ontara fears to die % 

He fear'd not in his flower of days, 

When strong to stem the torrent's force, 

When through the desert's pathless maze 
His way was as an eagle's course ! 

When war was sunshine to his sight, 

And the wild hurricane delight ! 

Shall, then, the warrior tremble now ? 

Now when his envied strength is o'er — 
Hung on the pine his idle bow, 

His pirogue useless on the shore % 
When age hath dimm'd his failing eye, 
Shall he, the joyless, fear to die 1 

Sons of the brave ! delay no more — 
The spirits of my kindred call. 

'Tis but one pang, and all is o'er ! 
Oh, bid the aged cedar fall ! 

To join the brethren of his prime, 

The mighty of departed time. 



EVENING AMONGST THE ALPS. 

Soft skies of Italy ! how richly drest, 

Smile these wild scenes in your purpureal glow ! 
What glorious hues, reflected from the west, 

Float o'er the dwellings of eternal snow ! 
Yon torrent, foaming down the granite steep, 

Sparkles all brilliance in the setting beam ; 
Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep, 

Where pipes the goat-herd by his mountain- 
stream. 
Now from yon peak departs the vivid ray, 

That still at eve its lofty temple knows ; 
From rock and torrent fade the tints away, 

And all is wrapt in twilight's deep repose : 
While through the pine-wood gleams the vesper 

star, 
And roves the Alpine gale o'er solitudes afar. 



DIRGE OF THE HIGHLAND CHIEF IN 
"WAVERLEY." 1 

Son of the mighty and the free ! 

High-minded leader of the brave ! 
Was it for lofty chief like thee 
To fill a nameless grave ? 
Oh ! if amidst the valiant slain 

The warrior's bier had been thy lot, 
E'en though on red Culloden's plain, 
We then had mourn'd thee not. 

1 These very beautiful stanzas first appeared in the Edin- 
burgh Annual Register for 1815, (p. 255,) with the following 
interesting heading. 

" A literary friend of ours received these verses with a 
letter of the following tenor : — 

'"A very ingenious young friend of mine has just sent me 
the enclosed, on reading Waverley. To you the world gives 
that charming work; and if in any future edition you should 
like to insert the Dirge to a Highland Chief, you would do 
honour to 

Your Sincere Admirer.' 

" The individual to whom this obliging letter was addressed, 
having no claim to the honour which is there done him, does 
not possess the means of publishing the verses in the popular 
novel alluded to. But that the public may sustain no loss, 
and that the ingenious author of Waverley may be aware of 
the honour intended him, our correspondent has ventured to 
send the verses to our Register." 

Notwithstanding the mysticism in the note about the " very 
ingenious young friend of mine " and ' ' your sincere ad- 
mirer," on the one hand ; and the disclaimer by "a literary 
friend of ours," on the other, there can be little doubt that 
the Dirge was sent by Mrs Hemans to Sir Walter, then Mr 
Scott, and by him to the Register — of which he himself 
wrote that year the historical department. — Vide Lock- 
hart's Life of Scott, vol. iv. p. 80. 



58 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


But darkly closed thy dawn of fame, 


Strike the loud harp, ye minstrel train ! 


That dawn whose sunbeam rose so fair ; 


Pour forth your loftiest lays ; 


Vengeance alone may breathe thy name, 


Each heart shall echo to the strain 


The watchword of Despair ! 


Breathed in the warrior's praise. 


Yet, oh ! if gallant spirit's power 


Bid every string triumphant swell 


Hath e'er ennobled death like thine, 


Th' inspiring sounds that heroes love so well. 


Then glory mark'd thy parting hour, 




Last of a mighty line ! 


Salem ! amidst the fiercest hour, 




The wildest rage of fight, 


O'er thy own towers the sunshine falls, 


Thy name shall lend our falchions power, 


But cannot chase their silent gloom ; 


And nerve our hearts with might. 


Those beams that gild thy native walls 


Envied be those for thee that fall, 


Are sleeping on thy tomb ! 


Who find their graves beneath thy sacred wall. 


Spring on thy mountains laughs the while, 




Thy green woods wave in vernal air, 


For them no need that sculptured tomb 


But the loved scenes may vainly smile : 


Should chronicle their fame, 


Not e'en thy dust is there. 


Or pyramid record their doom, 




Or deathless verse their name ; 


On thy blue hills no bugle-sound 


It is enough that dust of thine 


Is mingling with the torrent's roar ; 


Should shroud their forms, blessed Palestine ! 


Unmark'd, the wild deer sport around : 




Thou leadst the chase no more ! 


Chieftains, lead on ! our hearts beat high 


Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still, 


For combat's glorious hour ; 


Those halls where peal'd the choral strain ; 


Soon shall the red-cross banner fly 


They hear the wind's deep murmuring thrill, 


On Salem's loftiest tower ! 


And all is hush'd again. 


We burn to mingle in the strife, 




Where hut to die insures eternal life. 


No banner from the lonely tower 




Shall wave its blazon'd folds on high ; 





There the tall grass and summer flower 




Unmark'd shall spring and die. 


THE DEATH OF CLANRONALD. 


No more thy bard for other ear 




Shall wake the harp once loved by thine — 


[It was in the battle of Sheriffmoor that young Clanronald 


Hush'd be the strain thou canst not hear, 


fell, leading on the Highlanders of the right wing. His 


Last of a mighty line ! 


death dispirited the assailants, who began to waver. But 


Glengarry, chief of a rival branch of the Clan Colla, started 




from the ranks, and, waving his bonnet round his head, 




cried out, " To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for mourn- 




ing ! " The Highlanders received a new impulse from his 




words, and, charging with redoubled fury, bore down all 


THE CRUSADERS' WAR-SONG. 


before them. — See the Quarterly Review article of " Cul- 
loden Papers."] 


Chieftains, lead on ! our hearts beat high — 


Oh, ne'er be Clanronald the valiant forgot ! 


Lead on to Salem's towers ! 


Still fearless and first in the combat, he fell ; 


Who would not deem it bliss to die, 


But we paused not one tear-drop to shed o'er the 


Slain in a cause like ours 1 


spot, 


The brave who sleep in soil of thine, 


We spared not one moment to murmur " Farewell." 


Die not entomb'd but shrined, Palestine ! 


We heard but the battle- word given by the chief, 




" To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief ! " 


Souls of the slain in holy war ! 




Look from your sainted rest. 


And wildly, Clanronald ! we echo'd the vow, 


Tell us ye rose in Glory's car, 


With the tear on our cheek, and the sword in our 


To mingle with the blest ; 


hand ; 


Tell us how short the death-pang's power, 


Young son of the brave ! we may weep for thee now, 


How bright the joys of your immortal bower. 


For well has thy death been avenged by thy band, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



When they join'd in wild chorus the cry of the 

chief, 
" To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief ! " 

Thy dirge in that hour was the bugle's wild call, 
The clash of the claymore, the shout of the brave; 
But now thy own bard may lament for thy fall, 
And the soft voice of melody sigh o'er thy grave — 
While Albyn remembers the words of the chief, 
" To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief ! " 

Thou art fallen, fearless one ! flower of thy race ! 
Descendant of heroes ! thy glory is set : 
But thy kindred, the sons of the battle and chase, 
Have proved that thy spirit is bright in them yet ! 
Nor vainly have echo'd the words of the chief, 
" To-day for revenge, and to-morrow for grief ! " 



TO THE EYE. 

Throne of expression ! whence the spirit's ray 
Pours forth so oft the light of mental day, 
Where fancy's fire, affection's mental beam, 
Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme, 
And many a feeling, words can ne'er impart, 
Finds its own language to pervade the heart : 
Thy power, bright orb ! what bosom hath not felt, 
To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt ! 
And, by some spell of undefined control, 
With magnet-influence touch the secret soul ! 

Light of the features ! in the morn of youth 
Thy glance is nature, and thy language truth ; 
And ere the world, with all-corrupting sway, 
Hath taught e'en thee to flatter and betray, 
Th' ingenuous heart forbids thee to reveal, 
Or speak one thought that interest would conceal. 
While yet thou seem'st the cloudless mirror given 
But to reflect the purity of heaven, 
Oh ! then how lovely, there unveil'd, to trace 
Th' unsullied brightness of each mental grace ! 

When Genius lends thee all his living light, 
Where the full beams of intellect unite ; 
When love illumes thee with his varying ray, 
Where trembling Hope and tearful Kapture play; 
Or Pity's melting cloud thy beam subdues, 
Tempering its lustre with a veil of dews ; 
Still does thy power, whose all-commanding spell 
Can pierce the mazes of the soul so well, 
Bid some new feeling to existence start 
From its deep slumbers in the inmost heart. 



And oh ! when thought, in ecstasy sublime, 
That soars triumphant o'er the bounds of time, 
Fires thy keen glance with inspiration's blaze, 
The light of heaven, the hope of nobler days, 
(As glorious dreams, for utterance far too high, 
Flash through the mist of dim mortality ;) 
Who does not own, that through thy lightning- 
beams 
A flame unquenchable, unearthly, streams 1 
That pure, though captive effluence of the sky, 
The vestal-ray, the spark that cannot die ! 



THE HERO'S DEATH. 

Life's parting beams were in his eye, 
Life's closing accents on his tongue, 
When round him, pealing to the sky, 
The shout of victory rung ! 

Then, ere his gallant spirit fled, 

A smile so bright illumed his face — 
Oh ! never, of the light it shed, 

Shall memory lose a trace ! 

His was a death whose rapture high 

Transcended all that life could yield ; 
His warmest prayer was so to die, 
On the red battle-field ! 

And they may feel, who loved him most, 

A pride so holy and so pure : 
Fate hath no power o'er those who boast 
A treasure thus secure ! 



STANZAS 



THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 

[" Helas ! nous composions son histoire de tout ce qu'on 
peut imaginer de plus glorieux. . . . Le passe" et le present nous 
garantissoient l'avenir. . . . Telle ^toit 1'agreable histoire que 
nous faisions ; et pour achever ces nobles projets, il n'y avoit 
que la duree de sa vie ; dont nous ne croyions pas devoir 
etre en peine, car qui eut pu seulement penser, que les 
anndes eussent du manquer a une jeunesse qui sembloit si 
vive ? " — Bossuet.] 

I. 
Makk'd ye the mingling of the city's throng, 
Each mien, each glance, with expectation bright? 



60 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Prepare the pageant and the choral song, 
The pealing chimes, the blaze of festal light ! 
And hark ! what rumour's gathering sound is nigh? 
Is it the voice of joy, that murmur deep? 
Away ! be hush'd, ye sounds of revelry ! 
Back to your homes, ye multitudes, to weep ! 
Weep ! for the storm hath o'er us darkly pass'd, 
And England's royal flower is broken by the blast! 



Was it a dream ? so sudden and so dread 
That awful fiat o'er our senses came ! 
So loved, so blest, is that young spirit fled, 
Whose early grandeur promised years of fame ? 
Oh ! when hath life possess'd, or death destroy'd 
More lovely hopes, more cloudlessly that smiled? 
When hath the spoiler left so dark a void 1 
For all is lost — the mother and her child ! 
Our morning-star hath vanish'd, and the tomb 
Throws its deep lengthen'd shade o'er distant 
years to come. 



Angel of Death ! did no presaging sign 
Announce thy coming, and thy way prepare 1 
No warning voice, no harbinger was thine, 
Danger and fear seem'd past — but thou wert there ! 
Prophetic sounds along the earthquake's path 
Foretell the hour of nature's awful throes; 
And the volcano, ere it burst in wrath, 
Sends forth some herald from its dread repose : 
But thou, dark Spirit ! swift and unforeseen, 
Cam'st like the lightning's flash, when heaven is 
all serene. 



And she is gone ! — the royal and the young, 
In soul commanding, and in heart benign ! 
Who, from a race of kings and heroes sprung, 
Glow'd with a spirit lofty as her line. 
Now may the voice she loved on earth so well 
Breathe forth her name unheeded and in vain ; 
Nor can those eyes on which her own would dwell 
Wake from that breast one sympathy again : 
The ardent heart, the towering mind are fled, 
Yet shall undying love still linger with the dead. 



Oh, many a bright existence we have seen 
Quench'd in the glow and fulness of its prime ; 
And many a cherish'd flower, ere now, hath been 
Cropt ere its leaves were breathed upon by time. 
We have lost heroes in their noon of pride, 
Whose fields of triumph gave them but a bier ; 



And we have wept when soaring genius died, 
Check'd in the glory of his mid career ! 
But here our hopes were centred — all is o'er : 
All thought in this absorb'd, — she was — and is no 
more ! 



We watch'd her childhood from its earliest hour, 
From every word and look blest omens caught ; 
While that young mind developed all its power, 
And rose to energies of loftiest thought. 
On her was fix'd the patriot's ardent eye — 
One hope still bloom'd, one vista still was fair ; 
And when the tempest swept the troubled sky, 
She was our dayspring — all was cloudless there; 
And oh ! how lovely broke on England's gaze, 
E'en through the mist and storm, the light of 
distant days. 



Now hath one moment darken'd future years, 
And changed the track of ages yet to be !— - 
Yet, mortal ! midst the bitterness of tears, 
Kneel, and adore th' inscrutable decree ! 
Oh ! while the clear perspective smiled in light, 
Wisdom should then have temper'd hope's excess; 
And, lost One ! when we saw thy lot so bright, 
We might have trembled at its loveliness. 
Joy is no earthly flower — nor framed to bear, 
In its exotic bloom, life's cold, ungenial air. 



All smiled around thee : Youth, and Love, and 

Praise, 
Hearts all devotion and all truth were thine ! 
On thee was riveted a nation's gaze, 
As on some radiant and unsullied shrine. 
Heiress of empires ! thou art pass'd away 
Like some fair vision, that arose to throw 
O'er one brief hour of life a fleeting ray, 
Then leave the rest to solitude and woe ! 
Oh ! who shall dare to woo such dreams again ! 
Who hath not wept to know that tears for thee 

were vain? 



Yet there is one who loved thee— and whose soul 
With mild affections nature form'd to melt ; 
His mind hath bow'd beneath the stern control 
Of many a grief — but this shall be unfelt ! 
Years have gone by — and given his honour'd head 
A diadem of snow ; his eye is dim ; 
Around him Heaven a solemn cloud hath spread — • 
The past, the future, are a dream to him ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



61 



Yet, in the darkness of his fate, alone 1 
He dwells on earth, while thou in life's full pride 
art gone ! 



The Chastener's hand is on us — we may weep, 
But not repine — for many a storm hath pass'd, 
And, pillow'd on her own majestic deep, 
Hath England slept, unshaken by the blast ! 
And War hath raged o'er many a distant plain, 
Trampling the vine and olive in his path ; 
While she, that regal daughter of the main, 
Smiled in serene defiance of his wrath ! 
As some proud summit, mingling with the sky, 
Hears calmly far below the thunders roll and die. 



Her voice hath been th' awakener — and her name 
The gathering-word of nations. In her might, 
And all the awful beauty of her fame, 
Apart she dwelt, in solitary light. 
High on her cliffs, alone and firm she stood, 
Fixing the torch upon her beacon-tower — 
That torch whose flame, far streaming o'er the flood, 
Hath guided Europe through her darkest hour. 
Away, vain dreams of glory ! — in the dust 
Be humbled, Ocean-queen ! and own thy sentence 
just! 



Hark ! 'twas the death-bell's note ! which, full 

and deep, 
Unmix'd with aught of less majestic tone, 
While all the murmurs of existence sleep, 
Swell'd on the stillness of the air alone ! 
Silent the throngs that fill the darken'd street, 
Silent the slumbering Thames, the lonely mart ; 
And all is still, where countless thousands meet, 
Save the full throbbing of the awe-struck heart ! 



1 " I saw him last on this terrace proud, 
Walking in health and gladness ; 
Begirt with his court— and in all the crowd 
Not a single look of sadness. 

" The time since he walk'd in glory thus, 
To the grave till I saw him carried, 
Was an age of the mightiest change to us, 
But to Mm a night unvaried. 

" A daughter beloved — a queen — a son — 
And a son's sole child had perish'd ; 
And sad was each heart, save the only one 
By which they were fondest cherish'd." 

— " The Contrast," written under Windsor Terrace, 17th Feb. 
1820, by Horace Smith, Esq. 



All deeply, strangely, fearfully serene, 
As in each ravaged home th' avenging one had 
been. 

XIII. 

The sun goes down in beauty — his farewell, ■ 
Unlike the world he leaves, is calmly bright ; 
And his last mellow'd rays around us dwell, 
Lingering, as if on scenes of young delight. 
They smile and fade — but, when the day is o'er, 
What slow procession moves with measured 

tread 1 — ■ 
Lo ! those who weep, with her who weeps no more, 
A solemn train — the mourners and the dead ! 
While, throned on high, the moon's untroubled ray 
Looks down, as earthly hopes are passing thus away. 



But other light is in that holy pile, 
Where, in the house of silence, kings repose ; 
There, through the dim arcade and pillar'd aisle, 
The funeral torch its deep-red radiance throws. 
There pall, and canopy, and sacred strain, 
And all around the stamp of woe may bear ; 
But Grief, to whose full heart those forms are vain, 
Grief unexpress'd, unsoothed by them — is there. 
No darker hour hath Fate for him who mourns, 
Than when the all he loved, as dust, to dust 
returns. 



We mourn — but not thy fate, departed One ! 
We pity — but the living, not the dead ; 
A cloud hangs o'er us 1 — " the bright day is done," 
And with a father's hopes, a nation's fled. 
And he, the chosen of thy youthful breast, 
Whose soul with thine had mingled every thought — 
He, with thine early fond affections blest, 
Lord of a mind with all things lovely fraught ; 
What but a desert to his eye, that earth, 
Which but retains of thee the memory of thy 
worth ] 



Oh ! there are griefs for nature too intense, 
Whose first rude shock but stupifies the soul ; 
Nor hath the fragile and o'erlabour'd sense 
Strength e'en to feel at once their dread control. 
But when 'tis past, that still and speechless hour 
Of the seal'd bosom and the tearless eye, 
Then the roused mind awakes, with tenfold power 
To grasp the fulness of its agony ! 



1 " The bright day is done, 
And we are for the darkv 



-Shakspeare. 



62 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Its death-like torpor vanish'd — and its doom, 
To cast its own dark hues o'er life and nature's 
bloom. 



And such Ms lot whom thou hast loved and left, 
Spirit ! thus early to thy home recall'd ! 
So sinks the heart, of hope and thee bereft, 
A warrior's heart, which danger ne'er appall'd. 
Years may pass on — and, as they roll along, 
Mellow those pangs which now his bosom rend ; 
And he once more, with life's unheeding throng, 
May, though alone in soul, in seeming blend ; 
Yet still, the guardian-angel of his mind 
Shall thy loved image dwell, in Memory's temple 
shrined. 



Yet must the days be long ere time shall steal 
Aught from his grief whose spirit dwells with thee : 
Once deeply bruised, the heart at length may heal, 
But all it was — oh ! never more shall be. 
The flower, the leaf, o'erwhelm'd by winter snow, 
Shall spring again, when beams and showers return, 
The faded cheek again with health may glow, 
And the dim eye with life's warm radiance burn ; 
But the pure freshness of the mind's young bloom, 
Once lost, revives alone in worlds beyond the tomb. 



But thou ! thine hour of agony is o'er, 

And thy brief race in brilliance hath been run ; 

While Faith, that bids fond nature grieve no more, 

Tells that thy crown — though not on earth — is won. 

Thou, of the world so early left, hast known 

Nought but the bloom and sunshine — and for thee, 

Child of propitious stars ! for thee alone, 

The course of love ran smooth 1 and brightly free. 

Not long such bliss to mortal could be given : 

It is enough for earth to catch one glimpse of heaven. 



What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame 
Rose in its glory on thine England's eye, 
The grave's deep shadows o'er thy prospect came? 
Ours is that loss — and thou wert blest to die ! 
Thou mightst have lived to dark and evil years, 
To mourn thy people changed, thy skies o'ercast; 
But thy spring morn was all undimm'd by tears, 
And thou wert loved and cherish'd to the last ! 

1 " The course of true love never did run smooth." 

Shakspeare. 



And thy young name, ne'er breathed in ruder tone, 
Thus dying, thou hast left to love and grief alone. 



Daughter of Kings ! from that high sphere look 

down 
Where still, in hope, affection's thoughts may rise; 
Where dimly shines to thee that mortal crown 
Which earth display'd to claim thee from the skies. 
Look down ! and if thy spirit yet retain 
Memory of aught that once was fondly dear, 
Soothe, though unseen, the hearts that mourn in 

vain, 
And in their hours of loneliness — be near ! 
Blest was thy lot e'en here — and one faint sigh, 
Oh ! tell those hearts, hath made that blest 

eternity! 2 

2 These stanzas were dated, Brownwhylfa, 23d Dec. 1817, 
and first appeared in Blackwood's Magazine, vol. iii. April 

1818. 

EXTRACT FROM QUARTERLY REVIEW. 

" The next volume in order consists principally of trans- 
lations. It will give our readers some idea of Mrs Hemans' 
acquaintance with books, to enumerate the authors from 
whom she has chosen her subjects ; — they are Camoens, 
Metastasio, Filicaja, Pastorini, Lope de Vega, Francisco 
Manuel, Delia Casa, Cornelio Bentivoglio, Quevedo, Juan 
de Tarsis, Torquato and Bernardo Tasso, Petrarca, Pietro 
Bembo, Lorenzini, Gesner, Chaulieu, Garcilaso de Vega — 
names embracing almost every language in which the muse 
has found a tongue in Europe. Many of these translations 
are very pretty, but it would be less interesting to select any 
of them for citation , as our readers might not be possessed of 
or acquainted with the originals. We will pass on, therefore, 
to the latter part of the volume, which contains much that 
is very pleasing and beautiful. The poem which we are 
about to transcribe is on a subject often treated — and no 
wonder ; it would be hard to find another which embraces 
so many of the elements of poetic feeling ; so soothing a 
mixture of pleasing melancholy and pensive hope ; such an 
assemblage of the ideas of tender beauty, of artless playful- 
ness, of spotless purity, of transient yet imperishable bright- 
ness, of affections wounded, but not in bitterness, of sorrows 
gently subdued, of eternal and undoubted happiness. We 
know so little of the heart of man, that when we stand by 
the grave of him whom we deem most excellent, the thought 
of death will be mingled with some awe and uncertainty ; 
but the gracious promises of scripture leave no doubt as to 
the blessedness of departed infants ; and when we think 
what they now are and what they might have been, what 
they now enjoy and what they might have suffered, what 
they have now gained and what they might have lost, we 
may, indeed, yearn to follow them ; but we must be selfish 
indeed to wish them again ' constrained ' to dwell in these 
tenements of pain and sorrow. The ' Dirge of a Child,' 
which follows, embodies these thoughts and feelings, but in 
more beautiful order and language : — 

" No bitter tears for thee be shed," etc. — Vide page 55. 



WALLACE'S INVOCATION" TO BRUCE. 



63 



WALLACE'S INVOCATION -TO BRUCE. 1 

" Great patriot hero ! ill-requited chief ! " 



The morn rose bright on scenes renown'd, 
Wild Caledonia's classic ground, 
Where the bold sons of other days 
Won their high fame in Ossian's lays, 
And fell — but not till Carron's tide 
With Roman blood was darkly dyed. 
The morn rose bright — and heard the cry 
Sent by exulting hosts on high, 
And saw the white-cross banner float 
(While rung each clansman's gathering-note) 
O'er the dark plumes and serried spears 
Of Scotland's daring mountaineers ; 



1 Advertisement by the Author. — " A native of Edinburgh, 
and member of the Highland Society of London, with a view 
to give popularity to the project of rearing a suitable national 
monument to the memory of Wallace, lately offered prizes 
for the three best poems on the subject of that illustrious 
patriot inviting Bruce to the Scottish throne. The follow- 
ing poem obtained tbe first of these prizes. It would have 
appeared in the same form in which it is now offered to the 
public, under the direction of its proper editor, the giver of 
the prize ; but his privilege has, with pride as well as plea- 
sure, been yielded to a lady of the author's own country, 
who solicited permission to avail herself of this opportunity 
of honouring and further remunerating the genius of the 
poet ; and, at the same time, expressing her admiration of 
the theme in which she has triumphed. 

" It is a noble feature in the character of a generous and 
enlightened people, that, in England, the memory of the 
patriots and martyrs of Scotland has long excited an interest 
not exceeded in strength by that which prevails in the coun- 
try which boasts their birth, their deeds, and their sufferings." 

[" Mrs Hemans was recommended by a zealous friend in 
Edinburgh to enter the lists as a competitor, which she accord- 
ingly did, though without being in the slightest degree san- 
guine of success : so that the news of the prize having been 
decreed to her was no less unexpected than gratifying. The 
number of candidates, for this distinction, was so over- 
whelming as to cause not a little embarrassment to the judges 
appointed to decide on their merits. A letter, written at this 
time, describes them as being reduced to absolute despair by 
the contemplation of the task which awaited them, having to 
read over a mass of poetry that would require a month at least 
to wade through. Some of the contributions were from the 
strangest aspirants imaginable ; and one of them is mentioned 
as being as long as Paradise Lost. At length, however, the 
Herculean labour was accomplished ; and the honour awarded 
to Mrs Hemans, on this occasion, seemed an earnest of the 
warm kindness and encouragement she was ever afterwards 
to receive at the hands of the Scottish public."— Memoir, 
p. 31-2. 

Although two-thirds of the compositions sent to the arbiters, 
on the occasion alluded to, are understood to have been mere 
trash, yet several afterwards came to light, through the press, 



As, all elate with hope, they stood, 
To buy their freedom with their blood. 

The sunset shone — to guide the flying, 
And beam a farewell to the dying ! 
The summer moon, on Falkirk's field, 
Streams upon eyes in slumber seal'd ; 
Deep slumber — not to pass away 
When breaks another morning's ray, 
Nor vanish when the trumpet's voice 
Bids ardent hearts again rejoice : 
What sunbeam's glow, what clarion's breath, 
May chase the still cold sleep of death ] 

of very considerable excellence. We would especially men- 
tion "Wallace and Bruce, a Vision," published in Constable's 
Magazine for Dec. 1819 ; and " Wallace," by James Hogg, 
subsequently included in the fourth volume of his Collected 
Works— Edin. 1822, p. 143-160. 

" The Vision " is thus prefaced : — " Though far from enter- 
ing into a hopeless competition with Mrs Hemans, I think 
the far-famed interview of our patriot heroes ought not to 
be left entirely to English celebration. Mrs Hemans has 
adorned the subject with the finest strains of pure poetry. 
Receive here, as a humble contrast, a simple strain of genuine 
Scottish feeling, flowing from a mind that owns no other muse 
but the amor patrice, and seeks no other praise but what 
is due to heartfelt interest in the glory of our ancient king- 
dom, and no higher name than that of ' a kindly Scot.' " 

The Ettrick Shepherd is equally gallant in his laudations, 
and forgets his discomfiture in generous acknowledgement of 
the merits of his rival. " This poem," (Wallace,) says he, 
" was hurriedly and reluctantly written, in compliance with 
the solicitations of a friend who would not be gainsayed, to 
compete for a prize offered by a gentleman for the best poem 
on the subject. The prize was finally awarded to Mrs Felicia 
Hemans ; and, as far as the merits of mine went, very justly, 
hers being greatly superior both in elegance of thought and 
composition. Had I been constituted the judge myself, I 
would have given hers the preference by many degrees ; and 
I estimated it the more highly as coming from one of the 
people that were the hero's foes, oppressors, and destroyers. 
I think my heart never warmed so much to an author for any 
poem that ever was written." 

Acceptable praise this must have been, coming from such 
a man as the Author of " The Queen's Wake" — a produc- 
tion entitled to a permanent place in British poetry, indepen- 
dently of the extraordinary circumstances under which it was 
composed. Whatever may be its blemishes, taken as a whole, 
" Kilmeny," " Glenavin," " Earl Walter," " The Abbot 
Mackinnon," and " The Witch of Fife "—more especially the 
first and the last — possess peculiar merits, and of a high kind ; 
and are, I doubt not, destined to remain for ever embalmed 
in the memories of all true lovers of imaginative verse. Poor 
Hogg was the very reverse of Antaeus — he was always in 
power except when he touched the earth.] 



64 WALLACE'S INVOCATION TO BEUCE. 


Shrouded in Scotland's blood-stain'd plaid, 


Heard ye the Patriot's awful voice 1 — 


Low are her mountain-warriors laid ; 


" Proud Victor ! in thy fame rejoice ! 


They fell, on that proud soil whose mould 


Hast thou not seen thy brethren slain, 


Was blent with heroes' dust of old, 


The harvest of the battle-plain, 


And, guarded by the free and brave, 


And bathed thy sword in blood, whose spot 


Yielded the Roman — but a grave ! 


Eternity shall cancel not ? 


Nobly they fell ; yet with them died 


Rejoice ! — with sounds of wild lament 


The warrior's hope, the leader's pride. 


O'er her dark heaths and mountains sent, 


Vainly they fell — that martyr host— 


With dying moan and dirge's wail, 


All, save the land's high soul, is lost. 


Thy ravaged country bids thee hail ! 


Blest are the slain ! they calmly sleep, 


Rejoice ! — while yet exulting cries 


Nor hear their bleeding country weep ! 


From England's conquering host arise, 


The shouts of England's triumph telling 


And strains of choral triumph tell 


Reach not their dark and silent dwelling ; 


Her Royal Slave hath fought too well ! 


And those surviving to bequeath 


Oh, dark the clouds of woe that rest 


Their sons the choice of chains or death, 


Brooding o'er Scotland's mountain-crest ! 


May give the slumberer's lowly bier 


Her shield is cleft, her banner torn, 


An envying glance — but not a tear. 


O'er martyr'd chiefs her daughters mourn, 




And not a breeze but wafts the sound 


But thou, the fearless and the free, 


Of wailing through the land around. 


Devoted Knight of Ellerslie ! 


Yet deem not thou, till life depart, 


No vassal-spirit, form'd to bow 


High hope shall leave the patriot's heart ; 


When storms are gathering, clouds thy 


Or courage to the storm inured, 


brow ; 


Or stern resolve by woes matured, 


No shade of fear or weak despair 


Oppose, to Fate's severest hour, 


Blends with indignant sorrow there ! 


Less than unconquerable power ! 


The ray which streams on yon red field, 


No ! though the orbs of heaven expire, 


O'er Scotland's cloven helm and shield, 


Thine, Freedom ! is a quenchless fire ; 


Glitters not there alone, to shed 


And woe to him whose might would dare 


Its cloudless beauty o'er the dead ; 


The energies of thy despair ! 


But where smooth Carron's rippling wave 


No ! — when thy chain, Bruce ! is cast 


Flows near that deathbed of the brave, 


O'er thy land's charter 'd mountain-blast, 


Illuming all the midnight scene, 


Then in my yielding soul shall die 


Sleeps brightly on thy lofty mien. 


The glorious faith of Liberty ! " 


But other beams, Patriot ! shine 




In each commanding glance of thine, 


" Wild hopes ! o'er dreamer's mind that 


And other light hath fill'd thine eye 


rise !" 


With inspiration's majesty, 


With haughty laugh the Conqueror cries, 


Caught from th' immortal flame divine 


(Yet his dark cheek is flush' d with shame, 


Which makes thine inmost heart a shrine ! 


And his eye fill'd with troubled flame ;) 


Thy voice a prophet's tone hath won, 


" Vain, brief illusions ! doom'd to fly 


The grandeur Freedom lends her son ; 


England's red path of victory ! 


Thy bearing a resistless power, 


Is not her sword unmatch'd in might? 


The ruling genius of the hour ! 


Her course a torrent in the fight 1 


And he, yon Chief, with mien of pride, 


The terror of her name gone forth 


Whom Carron's waves from thee divide, 


Wide o'er the regions of the north ] 


Whose haughty gesture fain would seek 


Far hence, midst other heaths and snows, 


To veil the thoughts that blanch his cheek, 


Must freedom's footstep now repose. 


Feels his reluctant mind controll'd 


And thou — in lofty dreams elate, 


By thine of more heroic mould : 


Enthusiast ! strive no more with Fate ! 


Though struggling all in vain to war 


'Tis vain — the land is lost and won : 


With that high soul's ascendant star, 


Sheathed be the sword — its task is done. 


He, with a conqueror's scornful eye, 


Where are the chiefs that stood with thee 


Would mock the name of Liberty. 


First in the battles of the free ? 



WALLACE'S INVOCATION TO BEUCE. 65 


The firm in heart, in spirit high 1 — 


And when all other grief is past, 


They sought yon fatal field to die. 


Must this be cherish'd to the last — ■ 


Each step of Edward's conquering host 


Will lead thy battles, guard thy throne, 


Hath left a grave on Scotland's coast." 


With faith unspotted as his own; 




Nor in thy noon of fame recall 


" Vassal of England, yes ! a grave 


Whose was the guilt that wrought his fall." 


Where sleep the faithful and the brave ; 




And who the glory would resign 


Still dost thou hear in stern disdain '? 


Of death like theirs, for life like thine 1 


Are Freedom's warning accents vain 1 


They slumber — and the stranger's tread 


No ! royal Bruce ! within thy breast 


May spurn thy country's noble dead ; 


Wakes each high thought, too long suppress'd. 


Yet, on the land they loved so well, 


And thy heart's noblest feelings live, 


Still shall their burning spirit dwell, 


Blent in that suppliant word — "Forgive !" 


Their deeds shall hallow minstrel's theme, 


" Forgive the wrongs to Scotland done ! 


Their image rise on warrior's dream, 


Wallace ! thy fairest palm is won ; 


Their names be inspiration's breath, 


And, kindling at my country's shrine, 


Kindling high hope and scorn of death, 


My soul hath caught a spark from thine. 


Till bursts, immortal from the tomb, 


Oh ! deem not, in the proudest hour 


The flame that shall avenge their doom ! 


Of triumph and exulting power — 


This is no land for chains — away ! 


Deem not the light of peace could find 


O'er softer climes let tyrants sway. 


A home within my troubled mind. 


Think'st thou the mountain and the storm 


Conflicts by mortal eye unseen, 


Their hardy sons for bondage form ? 


Dark, silent, secret, there have been, 


Doth our stern wintry blast instil 


Known but to Him whose glance can trace 


Submission to a despot's will 1 


Thought to its deepest dwelling-place ! 


No ! we were cast in other mould 


— 'Tis past — and on my native shore 


Than theirs by lawless power controll'd ; 


I tread, a rebel son no more. 


The nurture of our bitter sky 


Too blest, if yet my lot may be 


Calls forth resisting energy ; 


In glory's path to follow thee ; 


And the wild fastnesses are ours, 


If tears, by late repentance pour'd, 


The rocks with their eternal towers. 


May lave the blood-stains from my sword !" 


The soul to struggle and to dare 




Is mingled with our northern air, 


Far other tears, Wallace ! rise 


And dust beneath our soil is lying 


From the heart's fountain to thine eyes , 


Of those who died for fame undying. 


Bright, holy, and uncheck'd they spring, 




While thy voice falters, " Hail ! my King ! 


" Tread' st thou that soil ! and can it be 


Be every wrong, by memory traced, 


No loftier thought is roused in thee 1 


In this full tide of joy effaced : 


Doth no high feeling proudly start 


Hail ! and rejoice ! — thy race shall claim 


From slumber in thine inmost heart 1 


A heritage of deathless fame, 


No secret voice thy bosom thrill, 


And Scotland shall arise at length 


For thine own Scotland pleading still ] 


Majestic in triumphant strength, 


Oh ! wake thee yet — indignant, claim 


An eagle of the rock, that won 


A nobler fate, a purer fame, 


A way through tempests to the sun. 


And cast to earth thy fetters riven, 


Nor scorn the visions, wildly grand, 


And take thine offer'd crown from heaven. 


The prophet-spirit of thy land : 


Wake ! in that high majestic lot 


By torrent- wave, in desert vast, 


May the dark past be all forgot ; 


Those visions o'er my thought have pass'd : 


And Scotland shall forgive the field 


Where mountain vapours darkly roll, 


Where with her blood thy shame was seal'd. 


That spirit hath possess'd my soul ; 


E'en I — though on that fatal plain 


And shadowy forms have met mine eye, 


Lies my heart's brother with the slain ; 


The beings of futurity ; 


Though, reft of his heroic worth, 


And a deep voice of years to be 


My spirit dwells alone on earth ; 


Hath told that Scotland shall be free ! 



66 



WALLACE'S INVOCATION" TO BRUCE. 



He comes ! exult, thou Sire of Kings ! 

From thee the chief, th' avenger springs ! 

Far o'er the land he comes to save, 

His banners in their glory wave, 

And Albyn's thousand harps awake 

On hill and heath, by stream and lake, 

To swell the strains that far around 

Bid the proud name of Bruce resound ! 

And I — but wherefore now recall 

The whisper'd omens of my fall 1 

They come not in mysterious gloom — 

There is no bondage in the tomb ! 

O'er the soul's world no tyrant reigns, 

And earth alone for man hath chains ! 

What though I perish ere the hour 

When Scotland's vengeance wakes in power ? 

If shed for her, my blood shall stain 

The field or scaffold not in vain : 

Its voice to efforts more sublime 

Shall rouse the spirit of her clime ; 

And in the noontide of her lot, 

My country shall forget me not ! " 



Art thou forgot] and hath thy worth 
Without its glory pass'd from earth ? 
Rest with the brave, whose names belong 
To the high sanctity of song ! 
Charter'd our reverence to control, 
And traced in sunbeams on the soul, 
Thine, Wallace ! while the heart hath still 
One pulse a generous thought can thrill — 
While youth's warm tears are yet the meed 
Of martyr's death or hero's deed, 
Shall brightly live from age to age, 
Thy country's proudest heritage ! 
Midst her green vales thy fame is dwelling, 
Thy deeds her mountain winds are telling, 
Thy memory speaks in torrent-wave, 
Thy step hath hallow'd rock and cave, 
And cold the wanderer's heart must be 
That holds no converse there with thee ! 
Yet, Scotland ! to thy champion's shade 
Still are thy grateful rites delay'd ; 
From lands of old renown, o'erspread 
With proud memorials of the dead, 
The trophied urn, the breathing bust, 
The pillar guarding noble dust, 
The shrine where art and genius high 
Have labour'd for eternity — 
The stranger comes : his eye explores 
The wilds of thy majestic shores, 
Yet vainly seeks one votive stone 
Raised to the hero all thine own. 



Land of bright deeds and minstrel-lore ! 
Withhold that guerdon now no more. 
On some bold height of awful form, 
Stern eyrie of the cloud and storm, 
Sublimely mingling with the skies, 
Bid the proud Cenotaph arise : 
Not to record the name that thrills 
Thy soul, the watch-word of thy hills ; 
Not to assert, with needless claim, 
The bright for ever of its fame ; 
But, in the ages yet untold, 
When ours shall be the days of old, 
To rouse high hearts, and speak thy pride 
In him, for thee who lived and died. 

[These verses were thus critically noticed at the time of 
publication : — 

" When we mentioned in the tent, that Mrs Hemans had 
authorised the judges who awarded to her the prize to send 
her poem to us, it is needless to say with what enthusiasm the 
proposal of reading it aloud was received on all sides ; and at 
its conclusion thunders of applause crowned the genius of the 
fair poet. Scotland has her Baillie — Ireland her Tighe — 
England her Hemans." — Blackwood's Magazine, vol. v. Sept. 
1819. 

" Mrs Hemans so soon again ! — and with a palm in her 
hand ! We welcome her cordially, and rejoice to find the 
high opinion of her genius which we lately expressed so un- 
equivocally confirmed. 

" On this animating theme, (the meeting of Wallace and 
Bruce,) several of the competitors, we understand, were of 
the other side of the Tweed — a circumstance, we learn, which 
was known from the references before the prizes were deter- 
mined. Mrs Hemans's was the first prize, against fifty-seven 
competitors. That a Scottish prize, for a poem on a subject 
purely, proudly Scottish, has been adjudged to an English 
candidate, is a proof at once of the perfect fairness of the 
award, and of the merit of the poem. It further demonstrates 
the disappearance of those jealousies which, not a hundred 
years ago, would have denied to such a candidate any thing 
like a fair chance with a native — if we can suppose any poet 
in the south then dreaming of making the trial, or viewing 
Wallace in any other light than that of an enemy, and a 
rebel against the paramount supremacy of England. We 
delight in every gleam of high feeling which warms the two 
nations alike, and ripens yet more that confidence and sym- 
pathy which bind them together in one great family." — Edin. 
Monthly Review, vol. ii. 

The estimation into which the poetry of Mr Hemans was 
rising at this time, (1819,) is indicated by the following pas- 
sage, from a clever and not very lenient satire, entitled 
" Common Sense," then published, and currently believed 
to have emanated from the pen of the Rev. Mr Terrot, now 
Diocesan Bishop of Edinburgh. When alluding to the female 
writers of the age, Miss Baillie is the first mentioned and 
characterised. He then proceeds — 

" Next I'd place 

Felicia Hemans, second in the race ; 

I wonder the Reviews, who make such stir 

Oft about rubbish, never mention her. 

They might have said, I think, from mere good breeding — 

Mistress Felicia's works are worth the reading." 

" Mrs Hemans," adds the critical satirist in a note, " is 
a lady, (a young lady, I believe,) of very considerable 
merit. Her imagination is vigorous, her language copious 
and elegant, her information extensive. I have no means of 
ascertaining the extent of her fame, but she certainly deserves 
well of the republic of letters." 

The worthy bishop has lived to read " The Records of 
Woman ; " and, we have no doubt, rejoices to know that 
the aspirant of 1819 has now taken her place among British 
classics.] 



TALES AND HISTOEIC SCENES. 



67 



TALES AND HISTOEIC SCENES 



THE ABENCEEEAGE. 

[The events with which the following tale is interwoven 
are related in the Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada. 
They occurred in the reign of Abo Abdeli, or Abdali, the last 
Moorish king of that city, called by the Spaniards El Rey 
Chico. The conquest of Granada, by Ferdinand and Isa- 
bella, is said by some historians to have been greatly facili- 
tated by the Abencerrages, whose defection was the result 
of the repeated injuries they had received from the king, 
at the instigation of the Zegris. One of the most beautiful 
halls of the Alhambra is pointed out as the scene where so 
many of the former celebrated tribe were massacred ; and 
it still retains their name, being called the " Sala de los 
Abencerrages." Many of the most interesting old Spanish 
ballads relate to the events of this chivalrous and romantic 
period.] 

" Le Maure ne se venge pas parce que sa colere dure encore, mais 
parce que la vengeance seul peut ecarter de sa tete le poids d'infamie 
dont il est accable.— II se venge, parce qu'a ses yeux il n'y a qu'une ame 
basse qui puisse pardonner les affronts ; et il nourrit sa rancune, parce 
que s'il la sentoit s'eteindre, il croiroit avec elle avoir perdu une vertu." 

SlSMONDI. 



Lonely and still are now thy marble halls, 
Thou fair Alhambra ! there the feast is o'er ; 

And with the murmur of thy fountain-falls 
Blend the wild tones of minstrelsy no more. 

Hush'd are the voices that in years gone by 
Have mourn'd, exulted, menaced, through thy 
towers ; 

Within thy pillar'd courts the grass waves high, 
And all uncultured bloom thy fairy bowers. 

Unheeded there the flowering myrtle blows, 
Through tall arcades unmark'd the sunbeam 
smiles, 

And many a tint of soften'd brilliance throws 
O'er fretted walls and shining peristyles. 

And well might Fancy deem thy fabrics lone, 
So vast, so silent, and so wildly fair, 

Some charm'd abode of beings all unknown, 
Powerful and viewless, children of the air. 

For there no footstep treads th' enchanted ground, 
There not a sound the deep repose pervades, 

Save winds and founts, diffusing freshness round, 
Throughthe light domes and graceful colonnades. 



Far other tones have swell'd those courts along 
In days romance yet fondly loves to trace 

The clash of arms, the voice of choral song, 
The revels, combats of a vanish'd race. 

And yet awhile, at Fancy's potent call, 

Shall rise that race, the chivalrous, the bold ; 

Peopling once more each fair forsaken hall 

With stately forms, the knights and chiefs of old. 

The sun declines : upon Nevada's height 

There dwells a mellow flush of rosy light ; 
Each soaring pinnacle of mountain snow 
Smiles in the richness of that parting glow, 
And Darro's wave reflects each passing dye 
That melts and mingles in th' empurpled sky. 
Fragrance, exhaled from rose and citron bower, 
Blends with the dewy freshness of the hour ; 
Hush'd are the winds, and nature seems to sleep 
In light and stillness ; wood, and tower, and steep, 
Are dyed with tints of glory, only given 
To the rich evening of a southern heaven — 
Tints of the sun, whose bright farewell is fraught 
With all that art hath dreamt, but never caught. 
— Yes, Nature sleeps ; but not with her at rest 
The fiery passions of the human breast, [sound, 
Hark ! from th' Alhambra's towers what stormy 
Each moment deepening, wildly swells around ] 
Those are no tumults of a festal throng, 
Not the light zambra 1 nor the choral song : 
The combat rages — 'tis the shout of war, 
'Tis the loud clash of shield and scimitar. 
Within the Hall of Lions, 2 where the rays 
Of eve, yet lingering, on the fountain blaze ; 
There, girt and guarded by his Zegri bands, 
And stern in wrath, the Moorish monarch stands : 
There the strife centres — swords around him wave, 
There bleed the fallen, there contend the brave ; 
While echoing domes return the battle-cry, 
" Eevenge and freedom ! let the tyrant die ! " 
And onward rushing, and prevailing still, 
Court, hall, and tower the fierce avengers fill. 
But first and bravest of that gallant train, 
Where foes are mightiest, charging ne'er in vain : 

1 Zambra, a Moorish dance. 

2 The Hall of Lions was the principal one of the Alhambra, 
and was so called from twelve sculptured lions which sup- 
ported an alabaster basin in the centre. 



TALES AND HISTOEIC SCENES. 



In his red hand the sabre glancing bright, 
His dark eye flashing with a fiercer light, 
Ardent, untired, scarce conscious that he bleeds, 
His Aben-Zurrahs 1 there young Hamet leads ; 
While swells his voice that wild acclaim on high, 
" Eevenge and freedom ! let the tyrant die ! " 

Yes ! trace the footsteps of the warrior's wrath 
By helm and corslet shatter'd in his path, 
And by the thickest harvest of the slain, 
And by the marble's deepest crimson stain : 
Search through the serried fight, where loudest cries 
From triumph, anguish, or despair, arise ; 
And brightest where the shivering falchions glare, 
And where the ground is reddest — he is there. 
Yes ! that young arm, amidst the Zegri host, 
Hath well avenged a sire, a brother, lost. 

They perish'd — not as heroes should have died, 
On the red field, in victory's hour of pride, 
In all the glow and sunshine of their fame, 
And proudly smiling as the death-pang came : 
Oh ! had they thus expired, a warrior's tear 
Had flow'd, almost in triumph, o'er their bier. 
For thus alone the brave should weep for those 
"Who brightly pass in glory to repose. 
— Not such their fate : a tyrant's stern command 
Doom'd them to fall by some ignoble hand, 
As, with the flower of all their high-born race, 
Summon'd Abdallah's royal feast to grace, 
Fearless in heart, no dream of danger nigh, 
They sought the banquet's gilded hall — to die. 
Betray 'd, unarm'd, they fell — the fountain wave 
Flow'd crimson with the life-blood of the brave, 
Till far the fearful tidings of their fate 
Through the wide city rang from gate to gate, 
And of that lineage each surviving son [won. 

Eush'd to the scene where vengeance might be 

For this young Hamet mingles in the strife, 
Leader of battle, prodigal of life, 
Urging his followers, till their foes, beset, 
Stand faint and breathless, but undaunted yet. 
Brave Aben-Zurrahs, on ! one effort more, 
Yours is the triumph, and the conflict o'er. 

But lo ! descending o'er the darken'd hall, 
The twilight-shadows fast and deeply fall, 
Nor yet the strife hath ceased — though scarce 
they know, [foe ; 

Through that thick gloom, the brother from the 

1 Aben-Zurrahs : the name thus written is taken from the 
translation of an Arabic MS. given in the third volume of 
Bourgoanne's Travels through Spain. 



Till the moon rises with her cloudless ray, 

The peaceful moon, and gives them light to slay. 

Where lurks Abdallah 1 ? — midst his yielding train 
They seek the guilty monarch, but in vain. 
He lies not number'd with the valiant dead, 
His champions round him have not vainly bled ; 
But when the twilight spread her shadowy veil, 
And his last warriors found each effort fail, 
In wild despair he fled — a trusted few, 
Kindred in crime, are still in danger true ; 
And o'er the scene of many a martial deed, 
The Vega's 2 green expanse, his flying footsteps lead. 
He pass'd th' Alhambra's calm and lovely bowers, 
Where slept the glistening leaves and folded flowers 
In dew and starlight — there, from grot and cave, 
Gush'd in wild music many a sparkling wave ; 
There on each breeze the breath of fragrance rose, 
And all was freshness, beauty, and repose. 

But thou, dark monarch ! in thy bosom reign 
Storms that, once roused, shall never sleep again. 
Oh ! vainly bright is nature in the course 
Of him who flies from terror or remorse ! 
A spell is round him which obscures her bloom, 
And dims her skies with shadows of the tomb ; 
There smiles no Paradise on earth so fair 
But guilt will raise avenging phantoms there. 
Abdallah heeds not, though the light gale roves 
Fraught with rich odour, stolen from orange- 
groves ; [rise, 
Hears not the sounds from wood and brook that 
Wild notes of nature's vesper-melodies ; 
Marks not how lovely, on the mountain's head, 
Moonlight and snow their mingling lustre spread ; 
But urges onward, till his weary band, 
Worn with their toil, a moment's pause demand. 
He stops, and turning, on Granada's fanes 
In silence gazing, fix'd awhile remains 
In stern, deep silence : o'er his feverish brow, 
And burning cheek, pure breezes freshly blow, 
But waft in fitful murmurs, from afar, 
Sounds indistinctly fearful — as of war. 
What meteor bursts with sudden blaze on high, 
O'er the blue clearness of the starry sky ? 
Awful it rises, like some Genie-form, 
Seen midst the redness of the desert storm, 
Magnificently dread — above, below, 
Spreads the wild splendour of its deepening glow. 



2 The Vega, the plain surrounding Granada, the scene of 
frequent actions between the Moors and Christians. 

3 An extreme redness in the sky is the presage of the 
Simoom. — See Bruce's Travels. 



i 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 



09 



Lo ! from the Alhambra's towers the vivid glare 
Streams through the still transparence of the air ! 
Avenging crowds have lit the mighty pyre, 
Which feeds that waving pyramid of fire ; 
And dome and minaret, river, wood, and height, 
From dim perspective start to ruddy light. 

Oh Heaven ! the anguish of Abdallah's soul, 
The rage, though fruitless, yet beyond control ! 
Yet must he cease to gaze, and raving fly 
For life — such life as makes it bliss to die ! 
On yon green height, the mosque, but half reveal'd 
Through cypress-groves, a safe retreat may yield. 
Thither his steps are bent — yet oft he turns, 
Watching that fearful beacon as it burns. 
But paler grow the sinking flames at last, 
Flickering they fade, their crimson light is past ; 
And spiry vapours, rising o'er the scene, 
Mark where the terrors of their wrath have been. 
And now his feet have reach'd that lonely pile, 
Where grief and terror may repose awhile ; 
Embower'd it stands, midst wood and cliff on high, 
Through the gray rocks a torrent sparkling nigh : 
He hails the scene where every care should cease, 
And all — except the heart he brings — is peace. 

There is deep stillness in those halls of state 
Where the loud cries of conflict rang so late ; 
Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin's blast 
Hath o'er the dwellings of the desert pass'd. 1 
Fearful the calm — nor voice, nor step, nor breath 
Disturbs that scene of beauty and of death : 
Those vaulted roofs re-echo not a sound, 
Save the wild gush of waters — murmuring round 

1 Of the Kamsin, a hot south wind, common in Egypt, 
we have the following account in Volney's- Travels : — " These 
winds are known in Egypt by the general name of the winds 
of fifty days, because they prevail more frequently in the fifty 
days preceding and following the equinox. They are men- 
tioned by travellers under the name of the poisono us winds 
or hot winds of the desert : their heat is so excessive, that it 
is difficult to form any idea of its violence without having 
experienced it. "When they begin to blow, the sky, at other 
times so clear in this climate, becomes dark and heavy ; the 
sun loses his splendour, and appears of a violet colour ; the 
air is not cloudy, but gray and thick, and is filled with a sub- 
tle dust, which penetrates every where : respiration becomes 
short and difficult, the skin parched and dry, the lungs are 
contracted and painful, and the body consumed with internal 
heat. In vain is coolness sought for ; marble, iron, water, 
though the sun no longer appears, are hot : the streets are 
deserted, and a dead silence pervades every where. The 
natives of towns and villages shut themselves up in their 
houses, and those of the desert in tents, or holes dug in the 
earth, where they wait the termination of this heat, which 
generally lasts three days. Woe to the traveller whom it sur- 
prises remote from shelter : he must suffer all its dreadful 
effects, which are sometimes mortal." 



In ceaseless melodies of plaintive tone, 
Through chambers peopled by the dead alone. 
O'er the mosaic floors, with carnage red, 
Breastplate and shield and cloven helm are spread 
In mingled fragments — glittering to the light 
Of yon still moon, whose rays, yet softly bright, 
Their streaming lustre tremulously shed, 
And smile in placid beauty o'er the dead : 
O'er features where the fiery spirit's trace 
E'en death itself is powerless to efface ; 
O'er those who flush'd with ardent youth awoke, 
When glowing morn in bloom and radiance broke, 
Nor dreamt how near the dark and frozen sleep 
Which hears not Glory call, nor Anguish weep ; 
In the low silent house, the narrow spot, 
Home of forgetfulness — and soon forgot. 

But slowly fade the stars — the night is o'er — 
Morn beams on those who hail her light no more; 
Slumberers who ne'er shall wake on earth again, 
Mourners, who call the loved, the lost, in vain. 
Yet smiles the day — oh ! not for mortal tear 
Doth nature deviate from her calm career : 
Nor is the earth less laughing or less fair, 
Though breaking hearts her gladness may not share. 
O'er the cold urn the beam of summer glows, 
O'er fields of blood the zephyr freshly blows ; 
Bright shines the sun, though all be dark below, 
And skies arch cloudless o'er a world of woe ; 
And flowers renew'd in spring's green pathway 

bloom, 
Alike to grace the banquet and the tomb. 

Within Granada's walls the funeral rite 
Attends that day of loveliness and light ; 
And many a chief, with dirges and with tears, 
Is gather'd to the brave of other years : 
And Hamet, as beneath the cypress shade 
His martyr 'd brother and his sire are laid, 
Feels every deep resolve and burning thought 
Of ampler vengeance e'en to passion wrought ; 
Yet is the hour afar — and he must brood 
O'er those dark dreams awhile in solitude. 
Tumult and rage are hush'd — another day 
In still solemnity hath pass'd away, 
In that deep slumber of exhausted wrath, 
The calm that follows in the tempest's path. 

And now Abdallah leaves yon peaceful fane, 
His ravaged city traversing again. 
No sound of gladness his approach precedes, 
No splendid pageant the procession leads ; 
Where'er he moves the silent streets along, 
Broods a stern quiet o'er the sullen throng. 



70 



TALES AND HISTOKIC SCENES. 



No voice is heard ; but in each alter'd eye, 
Once brightly beaming when his steps were nigh, 
And in each look of those whose love hath fled 
From all on earth to slumber with the dead, 
Those by his guilt made desolate, and thrown 
On the bleak wilderness of life alone — 
In youth's quick glance of scarce-dissembled rage, 
And the pale mien of calmly-mournful age, 
May well be read a dark and fearful tale 
Of thought that ill the indignant heart can veil, 
And passion like the hush'd volcano's power, 
That waits in stillness its appointed hour. 

No more the clarion from Granada's walls, 
Heard o'er the Vega, to the tourney calls ; 
No more her graceful daughters, throned on high, 
Bend o'er the lists the darkly-radiant eye : 
Silence and gloom her palaces o'erspread, 
And song is hush'd, and pageantry is fled. 
— Weep, fated city ! o'er thy heroes weep- 
Low in the dust the sons of glory sleep ! 
Furl'd are their banners in the lonely hall, 
Their trophied shields hang mouldering on the 

wall, 
Wildly their chargers range the pastures o'er — 
Their voice in battle shall be heard no more. 
And they, who still thy tyrant's wrath survive, 
Whom he hath wrong'd too deeply to forgive, 
That race of lineage high, of worth approved, 
The chivalrous, the princely, the beloved — 
Thine Aben-Zurrahs — they no more shall wield 
In thy proud cause the conquering lance and shield : 
Condemn'd to bid the cherish'd scenes farewell 
Where the loved ashes of their fathers dwell, 
And far o'er foreign plains as exiles roam, 
Their land the desert, and the grave their home. 
Yet there is one shall see that race depart 
In deep though silent agony of heart : 
One whose dark fate must be to mourn alone, 
Unseen her sorrows and their cause unknown, 
And veil her heart, and teach her cheek to wear 
That smile in which the spirit hath no share — 
Like the bright beams that shed their fruitless glow 
O'er the cold solitude of Alpine snow. 

Soft, fresh, and silent is the midnight hour, 
And the young Zayda seeks her lonely bower ; 
That Zegri maid, within whose gentle mind 
One name is deeply, secretly enshrined. 
That name in vain stern reason would efface : 
Hamet ! 'tis thine, thou foe to all her race ! 

And yet not hers in bitterness to prove 
The sleepless pangs of unrequited love — 



Pangs which the rose of wasted youth consume, 
And make the heart of all delight the tomb, 
Check the free spirit in its eagle flight, 
And the spring-morn of early genius blight : 
Not such her grief — though now she wakes to weep, 
While tearless eyes enjoy the honey-dews of sleep. 1 

A step treads lightly through the citron-shade, 
Lightly, but by the rustling leaves betray' d — 
Doth her young hero seek that well-known spot, 
Scene of past hours that ne'er may be forgot 1 
'Tis he — but changed that eye, whose glance of fire 
Could like a sunbeam hope and joy inspire, 
As, luminous with youth, with ardour fraught, 
It spoke of glory to the inmost thought : 
Thence the bright spirit's eloquence hath fled, 
And in its wild expression may be read [shade, 
Stern thoughts and fierce resolves — now veil'd in 
And now in characters of fire portray'd. 
Changed e'en his voice — as thus its mournful tone 
Wakes in her heart each feeling of his own. 

" Zayda ! my doom is fix'd — another day 
And the wrong'd exile shall be far away ; 
Far from the scenes where still his heart must be, 
His home of youth, and, more than all — from thee. 
Oh ! what a cloud hath gather'd o'er my lot 
Since last we met on this fair tranquil spot ! 
Lovely as then the soft and silent hour, 
And not a rose hath faded from thy bower ; 
But I — my hopes the tempest hath o'erthrown, 
And changed my heart, to all but thee alone. 
Farewell, high thoughts ! inspiring hopes of praise ! 
Heroic visions of my early days ! 
In me the glories of my race must end — 
The exile hath no country to defend ! 
E'en in life's morn my dreams of pride are o'er, 
Youth's buoyant spirit wakes for me no more, 
And one wild feeling in my alter'd breast 
Broods darkly o'er the ruins of the rest. 
Yet fear not thou — to thee, in good or ill, 
The heart, so sternly tried, is faithful still ! 
But when my steps are distant, and my name 
Thou hear'st no longer in the song of fame ; 
When Time steals on, in silence to efface 
Of early love each pure and sacred trace, 
Causing our sorrows and our hopes to seem 
But as the moonlight pictures of a dream, — 
Still shall thy soul be with me, in the truth 
And all the fervour of affection's youth 1 
If such thy love, one beam of heaven shall play 
In lonely beauty o'er thy wanderer's way." 

1 " Enjoy the honey-lieavy-dew of slumber."— Shakspeare. 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 



71 



" Ask not if such my love ! Oh ! trust the mind 
To grief so long, so silently resign'd ! 
Let the light spirit, ne'er by sorrow taught 
The pure and lofty constancy of thought, 
Its fleeting trials eager to forget, 
Rise with elastic power o'er each regret ! 
Foster'd in tears, our young affection grew, 
And I have learn'd to suffer and be true. 
Deem not my love a frail, ephemeral flower, 
Nursed by soft sunshine and the balmy shower ; 
No ! 'tis the child of tempests, and defies, 
And meets unchanged, the anger of the skies ! 
Too well I feel, with grief's prophetic heart, 
That ne'er to meet in happier days we part. 
We part ! and e'en this agonising hour, 
When love first feels his own o'erwhelming power, 
Shall soon to memory's fix'd and tearful eye 
Seem almost happiness — for thou wert nigh ! 
Yes ! when this heart in solitude shall bleed, 
As days to days all wearily succeed, 
When doom'd to weep in loneliness, 'twill be 
Almost like rapture to have wept with thee ! 

" But thou, my Hamet ! thou canst yet bestow 
All that of joy my blighted lot can know. 
Oh ! be thou still the high-soul'd and the brave, 
To whom my first and fondest vows I gave ; 
In thy proud fame's untarnish'd beauty still 
The lofty visions of my youth fulfil. 
So shall it soothe me, midst my heart's despair, 
To hold undimm'd one glorious image there ! " 

" Zayda, my best-beloved ! my words too well, 
Too soon, thy bright illusions must dispel ; 
Yet must my soul to thee unveil'd be shown, 
And all its dreams and all its passions known. 
Thou shalt not be deceived — for pure as heaven 
Is thy young love, in faith and fervour given. 
I said my heart was changed — and would thy 

thought 
Explore the ruin by thy kindred wrought, 
In fancy trace the land whose towers and fanes, 
Crush'd by the earthquake, strew its ravaged 

plains ; 
And such that heart where desolation's hand 
Hath blighted all that once was fair or grand ! 
But Vengeance, fix'd upon her burning throne, 
Sits midst the wreck in silence and alone ; 
And I, in stern devotion at her shrine, 
Each softer feeling, but my love, resign. 
Yes ! they whose spirits all my thoughts control, 
Who hold dread converse with my thrilling soul ; 
They, the betray' d, the sacrificed, the brave, 
Who fill a blood-stain'd and untimely grave, 



Must be avenged ! and pity and remorse 
In that stern cause are banish'd from my course. 
Zayda ! thou tremblest — and thy gentle breast 
Shrinks from the passions that destroy my rest ; 
Yet shall thy form, in many a stormy hour, 
Pass brightly o'er my soul with softening power, 
And, oft recall' d, thy voice beguile my lot, 
like some sweet lay, once heard, and ne'er forgot. 

"But the night wanes — the hours too swiftly fly, 
The bitter moment of farewell draws nigh ; 
Yet, loved one ! weep not thus — in joy or pain, 
Oh ! trust thy Hamet, we shall meet again ! 
Yes, we shall meet ! and haply smile at last 
On all the clouds and conflicts of the past. 
On that fair vision teach thy thoughts to dwell, 
Nor deem these mingling tears our last fare- 
well!" 

Is the voice hush'd, whose loved expressive tone 
Thrill'd to her heart — and doth she weep alone 1 ? 
Alone she weeps ; that hour of parting o'er, 
When shall the pang it leaves be felt no more 1 
The gale breathes light, and fans her bosom fair, 
Showering the dewy rose-leaves o'er her hair ; 
But ne'er for her shall dwell reviving power 
In balmy dew, soft breeze, or fragrant flower, 
To wake once more that calm serene delight, 
The soul's young bloom, which passion's breath 

could blight — 
The smiling stillness of life's morning hour, 
Ere yet the day-star burns in all his power. 
Meanwhile, through groves of deep luxurious 

shade, 
In the rich foliage of the South array'd, 
Hamet, ere dawns the earliest blush of day, 
Bends to the vale of tombs his pensive way. 
Fair is that scene where palm and cypress wave 
On high o'er many an Aben-Zurrah's grave. 
Lonely and fair, its fresh and glittering leaves 
With the young myrtle there the laurel weaves, 
To canopy the dead ; nor wanting there 
Flowers to the turf, nor fragrance to the air, 
Norwood-bird's note, nor fall of plaintive stream — 
Wild music, soothing to the mourner's dream. 
There sleep the chiefs of old — their combats o'er, 
The voice of glory thrills their hearts no more. 
Unheard by them th' awakening clarion blows ; 
The sons of war at length in peace repose. 
No martial note is in the gale that sighs 
Where proud their trophied sepulchres arise, 
Mid founts, and shades, and flowers of brightest 

bloom — ■ 
As, in his native vale, some shepherd's tomb. 



72 



TALES AND HISTOKIC SCENES. 



There, where the trees their thickest foliage 

spread 
Dark o'er that silent valley of the dead ; 
Where two fair pillars rise, embower'd and lone, 
Not yet with ivy clad, with moss o'ergrown, 
Young Hamet kneels — while thus his vows are 

pour'd, 
The fearful vows that consecrate his sword : 
— " Spirit of him who first within my mind 
Each loftier aim, each nobler thought enshrined, 
And taught my steps the line of light to trace 
Left by the glorious fathers of my race, 
Hear thou my voice ! — for thine is with me still, 
In every dream its tones my bosom thrill, 
In the deep calm of midnight they are near, 
Midst busy throngs they vibrate on my ear, 
Still murmuring 'vengeance ! ' — nor in vain the call, 
Few, few shall triumph in a hero's fall ! 
Cold as thine own to glory and to fame, 
Within my heart there lives one only aim ; 
There, till th' oppressor for thy fate atone, 
Concentring every thought, it reigns alone. 
I will not weep — revenge, not grief, must be, 
And blood, not tears, an offering meet for thee ; 
But the dark hour of stern delight will come, 
And thou shalt triumph, warrior ! in thy tomb. 

" Thou, too, my brother ! thou art pass'd away. 
Without thy fame, in life's fair dawning day. 
Son of the brave ! of thee no trace will shine 
In the proud annals of thy lofty line ; 
Nor shall thy deeds be deathless in the lays 
That hold communion with the after-days. 
Yet, by the wreaths thou might'st have nobly won, 
Hadst thou but lived till rose thy noontide sun ; 
By glory lost, I swear ! by hope betray'd, 
Thy fate shall amply, dearly, be repaid : 
War with thy foes I deem a holy strife, 
And to avenge thy death devote my life. 

" Hear ye my vows, spirits of the slain ! 
Hear, and be with me on the battle-plain ! 
At noon, at midnight, still around me bide, 
Rise on my dreams, and tell me how ye died ! " 



CANTO II. 



" Oh ! ben provvide il Cielo 

Ch' Uom per delitti mai lieto non sia.' ; 



Fair land ! of chivalry the old domain, 
Land of the vine and olive, lovely Spain ! 



Though not for thee with classic shores to vie 
In charms that fix th' enthusiast's pensive eye ; 
Yet hast thou scenes of beauty, richly fraught 
With all that wakes the glow of lofty thought ; 
Fountains, and vales, and rocks, whose ancient name 
High deeds have raised to mingle with their fame. 
Those scenes are peaceful now : the citron blows, 
Wild spreads the. myrtle, where the brave repose. 
No sound of battle swells on Douro's shore, 
And banners wave on Ebro's banks no more. 
But who, unmoved, unawed, shall coldly tread 
Thy fields that sepulchre the mighty dead] 
Blest be that soil ! where England's heroes share 
The grave of chiefs, for ages slumbering there ; 
Whose names are glorious in romantic lays, 
The wild, sweet chronicles of elder days — 
By goatherd lone and rude serrano sung 
Thy cypress dells and vine clad rocks among. 
How oft those rocks have echo'd to the tale 
Of knights who fell in Roncesvalles' vale ; 
Of him, renown'd in old heroic lore, 
First of the brave, the gallant Campeador ; 
Of those, the famed in song, who proudly died 
When Rio Verde roll'd a crimson tide ; 
Or that high name, by Garcilaso's might 
On the Green Vega won in single fight. 1 

Round fair Granada, deepening from afar, 
O'er that Green Vega rose the din of war. 
At morn or eve no more the sunbeams shone 
O'er a calm scene, in pastoral beauty lone ; 
On helm and corslet tremulous they glanced, 
On shield and spear in quivering lustre danced. 
Far as the sight by clear Xenil could rove, 
Tents rose around, and banners glanced above ; 
And steeds in gorgeous trappings, armour bright 
With gold, reflecting every tint of light, 
And many a floating plume and blazon'd shield 
Diffused romantic splendour o'er the field. 

There sAvell those sounds that bid the life-blood 
start 
Swift to the mantling cheek and beating heart : 
The clang of echoing steel, the charger's neigh, 
The measured tread of hosts in war's array ; 
And, oh ! that music, whose exulting breath 
Speaks but of glory on the road to death : 
In whose wild voice there dwells inspiring power 
To wake the stormy joy of danger's hour; 
To nerve the arm, the spirit to sustain, 
Rouse from despondence, and support in pain ; 

1 Garcilaso de la Vega derived his surname from a single 
combat (in which he was the victor) with a Moor, on the 
Vega of Granada. 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 



73 



And, midst the deepening tumults of the strife, 
Teach every pulse to thrill with more than life. 

High o'er the camp, in many a broider'd fold, 
Floats to the wind a standard rich with gold : 
There, imaged on the cross, Ms form appears 
Who drank for man the bitter cup of tears — 1 
His form, whose word recall'd the spirit fled, 
Now borne by hosts to guide them o'er the dead ! 
O'er yon fair walls to plant the cross on high, 
Spain hath sent forth her flower of chivalry. 
Fired with that ardour which, in days of yore, 
To Syrian plains the bold crusaders bore ; 
Elate with lofty hope, with martial zeal, 
They come, the gallant children of Castile ; 
The proud, the calmly dignified : — and there 
Ebro's dark sons with haughty mien repair, 
And those who guide the fiery steed of war 
From yon rich province of the western star. 2 

But thou, conspicuous midst the glittering scene, 
Stern grandeur stamp'd upon thy princely mien ; 
Known by the foreign garb, the silvery vest, 
The snow-white charger, and the azure crest, 3 
Young Aben-Zurrah ! midst that host of foes, 
Why shines thyhelm, thy Moorish lance? Disclose! 
Why rise the tents where dwell thy kindred train, 
son of Afric ! midst the sons of Spain 1 
Hast thou with these thy nation's fall conspired, 
Apostate chief ! by hope of vengeance fired ] 
How art thou changed ! still first in every fight, 
Hamet the Moor ! Castile's devoted knight ! 
There dwells a fiery lustre in thine eye, 
But not the light that, shone in days gone by ; 
There is wild ardour in thy look and tone, 
But not the soul's expression once thine own, 
Nor aught like peace within. Yet who shall say 
What secret thoughts thine inmost heart may 
sway] 

1 " El Rey D. Fernando bolvio a la Vega, y pus6 su Real 
a la vista de Huecar, a veyute y seys dias del mes de Abril, 
adonde fue fortificado de todo lo necessario ; poniendo el 
Christiano toda su gente en esquadron, con todas sus van- 
deras tendidas, y su Real Estandarte, el qual Uevava por 
divisa un Christo crucificado."— Historia de las Gucrras 
Civiles de Granada. 

2 Andalusia signifies, in Arabic, the region of the evening 
or the west ; in a word, the Hesperia of the Greeks.— See 
Casiri's Bibliot. Ardbico-Hispana, and Gibbon's Decline 
and Fall, &c. 

3 " Los Abencerrages salieron con su acostumbrada librea 
azul y blanca, todos llenos de ricos texidos de plata, las 
plumas de la misma color ; en sus adargas, su acostumbrada 
divisa, salvages que desquixalavan leones, y otros un mundo 
que lo deshazia un selvage con un baston."— Gucrras Civiles 
de Granada. 



No eye but Heaven's may pierce that curtain'd 

breast, 
Whose joys and griefs alike are unexpress'd. 

There hath been combat on the tented plain ; 
The Vega's turf is red with many a stain ; 
And, rent and trampled, banner, crest, and shield 
Tell of a fierce and well-contested field. 
But all is peaceful now : the west is bright 
With the rich splendour of departing light ; 
Mulhacen's peak, half lost amidst the sky, 
Glows like a purple evening-cloud on high, 
And tints, that mock the pencil's art, o'erspread 
Th' eternal snow that crowns Veleta's head ; 4 
While the warm sunset o'er the landscape throws 
A solemn beauty, and a deep repose. 
Closed are the toils and tumults of the day, 
And Hamet wanders from the camp away. 
In silent musings rapt : — the slaughter'd brave 
Lie thickly strewn by Darro's rippling wave. 
Soft fall the dews — but other drops have dyed 
The scented shrubs that fringe the river side, 
Beneath whose shade, as ebbing life retired, 
The wounded sought a shelter — and expired. 5 
Lonely, and lost in thoughts of other days, 
By the bright windings of the stream he strays, 
Till, more remote from battle's ravaged scene, 
All is repose and solitude serene. 
There, 'neath an olive's ancient shade reclined, 
Whose rustling foliage waves in evening's wind, 
The harass'd warrior, yielding to the power, 
The mild sweet influence of the tranquil hour, 
Feels by degrees a long-forgotten calm 
Shed o'er his troubled soul unwonted balm ; 
His wrongs, his woes, his dark and dubious lot, 
The past, the future, are awhile forgot ; 
And Hope, scarce own' d, yet stealing o'er his breast, 
Half dares to whisper, "Thou shalt yet be blest !" 

Such his vague musings — but a plaintive sound 
Breaks on the deep and solemn stillness round ; 
A low, half-stifled moan, that seems to rise 
From life and death's contending agonies. 
He turns : Who shares with him that lonely shade] 
— A youthful warrior on his death-bed laid. 
All rent and stain'd his broider'd Moorish vest, 
The corslet shatter'd on his bleeding breast ; 
In his cold hand the broken falchion strain'd, 
With life's last force convulsively retain'd ; 

4 The loftiest heights of the Sierra Nevada are those called 
Mulhacen and Picacho de Veleta. 

5 It is known to be a frequent circumstance in battle, that 
the dying and the wounded drag themselves, as it were 
mechanically, to the shelter which may be afforded by any 
bush or thicket on the field. 



74 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



His plumage soil'd with dust, with crimson dyed, 
And the red lance in fragments by his side : 
He lies forsaken — pillow'd on his shield, 
His helmet raised, his lineaments reveal'd. 
Pale is that quivering lip, and vanish'd now 
The light once throned on that commanding brow; 
And o'er that fading eye, still upward cast, 
The shades of death are gathering dark and fast. 
Yet, as yon rising moon her light serene 
Sheds the pale olive's waving boughs between, 
Too well can Hamet's conscious heart retrace, 
Though changed thus fearfully, that pallid face, 
Whose every feature to his soul conveys 
Some bitter thought of long-departed days. 

" Oh ! is it thus," he cries, " we meet at last 1 
Friend of my soul in years for ever past ! 
Hath fate but led me hither to behold 
The last dread struggle, ere that heart is cold, — 
Receive thy latest agonising breath, 
And with vain pity soothe the pangs of death 1 
Yet let me bear thee hence — while life remains, 
E'en though thus feebly circling through thy veins, 
Some healing balm thy sense may still revive ; 
Hope is not lost — and Osmyn yet may live ! 
And blest were he whose timely care should save 
A heart so noble, e'en from glory's grave." 

Roused by those accents, from his lowly bed 
The dying warrior faintly lifts his head ; 
O'er Hamet's mien, with vague uncertain gaze, 
His doubtful glance awhile bewilder'd strays ; 
Till by degrees a smile of proud disdain 
Lights up those features late convulsed with pain; 
A quivering radiance flashes from his eye, 
That seems too pure, too full of soul, to die ; 
And the mind's grandeur, in its parting hour, 
Looks from that brow with more than wonted 
power. 

" Away ! " he cries, in accents of command, 
And proudly waves his cold and trembling hand. 
" Apostate, hence ! my soul shall soon be free — 
E'en now it soars, disdaining aid from thee. 
'Tis not for thee to close the fading eyes 
Of him who faithful to his country dies ; 
Not for thy hand to raise the drooping head 
Of him who sinks to rest on glory's bed. 
Soon shall these pangs be closed, this conflict 

o'er, 
And worlds be mine where thou canst never soar : 
Be thine existence with a blighted name, 
Mine the bright death which seals a warrior's 
fame !" 



The glow hath vanish'd from his cheek — his eye 
Hath lost that beam of parting energy ; 
Frozen and fix'd it seems — his brow is chill ; 
One struggle more — that noble heart is still. 
Departed warrior ! were thy mortal throes, 
Were thy last pangs, ere nature found repose, 
More keen, more bitter, than th' envenom'd dart 
Thy dying words have left in Hamet's heart 1 
Thy pangs were transient; his shall sleep no more, 
Till life's delirious dream itself be o'er ; 
But thou shalt rest in glory, and thy grave 
Be the pure altar of the patriot brave. 
Oh, what a change that little hour hath wrought 
In the high spirit and unbending thought ! 
Yet, from himself each keen regret to hide, 
Still Hamet struggles with indignant pride ; 
While his soul rises, gathering all its force, 
To meet the fearful conflict with remorse. 

To thee, at length, whose artless love hath been 
His own, unchanged, through many a stormy 

scene ; 
Zayda ! to thee his heart for refuge flies ; 
Thou still art faithful to affection's ties. 
Yes ! let the world upbraid, let foes contemn, 
Thy gentle breast the tide will firmly stem ; 
And soon thy smile and soft consoling voice 
Shall bid his troubled soul again rejoice. 

Within Granada's walls are hearts and hands 
Whose aid in secret Hamet yet commands ; 
Nor hard the task, at some propitious hour, 
To win his silent way to Zayda's bower, 
When night and peace are brooding o'er the world, 
When mute the clarions, and the banners furl'd. 
That hour is come — and, o'er the arms he bears, 
A wandering fakir's garb the chieftain wears : 
Disguise that ill from piercing eye could hide 
The lofty port, and glance of martial pride ; 
But night befriends — through paths obscure he 

pass'd, 
And hail'd the lone and lovely scene at last ; 
Young Zayda's chosen haunt, the fair alcove, 
The sparkling fountain, and the orange grove : 
Calm in the moonlight smiles the still retreat, 
As form'd alone for happy hearts to meet. 
For happy hearts ! — not such as hers, who there 
Bends o'er her lute with dark unbraided hair ; 
That maid of Zegri race, whose eye, whose mien, 
Tell that despair her bosom's guest hath been. 
So lost in thought she seems, the warrior's feet 
Unheard approach her solitary seat, 
Till his known accents every sense restore — 
" My own loved Zayda ! do we meet once more V 






THE ABENCERRAGE. 



75 



She starts, she turns — the lightning of surprise, 
Of sudden rapture, flashes from her eyes ; 
But that is fleeting — it is past — and how 
Far other meaning darkens o'er her brow : 
Changed is her aspect, and her tone severe — 
" Hence, Aben-Zurrah ! death surrounds thee 

here !" 
"Zayda ! what means that glance, unlike thine own? 
What mean those words, and that unwonted tone 1 
I will not deem thee changed — but in thy face, 
It is not joy, it is not love, I trace ! 
It was not thus in other days we met : 
Hath time, hath absence, taught thee to forget 1 
Oh ! speak once more — these rising doubts dispel : 
One smile of tenderness, and all is well ! " 

" Not thus we met in other days ! — oh, no ! 
Thou wert not, warrior, then thy country's foe ! 
Those days are past — we ne'er shall meet again 
With hearts all warmth, all confidence, as then. 
But thy dark soul no gentler feelings sway, 
Leader of hostile bands ! away, away ! 
On in thy path of triumph and of power, 
Nor pause to raise from earth a blighted flower." 

" And thou, too, changed ! thine earthly vow 
forgot ! 
This, this alone, was wanting to my lot ! 
Exiled and scorn' d, of every tie bereft, 
Thy love, the desert's lonely fount, was left ; 
And thou, my soul's last hope, its lingering beam, 
Thou ! the good angel of each brighter dream, 
Wert all the barrenness of life possest 
To wake one soft affection in my breast ! 
That vision ended — fate hath nought in store 
Of joy or sorrow e'er to touch me more. 
Go, Zegri maid ! to scenes of sunshine fly, 
From the stern pupil of adversity ! 
And now to hope, to confidence, adieu ! 
If thou art faithless, who shall e'er be true ]" 

"Hamet ! oh, wrong me not ! — I too could speak 
Of sorrows — trace them on my faded cheek, 
In the sunk eye, and in the wasted form, 
That tell the heart hath nursed a canker-worm ! 
But words were idle — read my sufferings there, 
Where grief is stamp'd on all that once was fair. 

" Oh, wert thou still what once I fondly deem'd, 
All that thy mien express'd, thy spirit seem'd, 
My love had been devotion ! — till in death 
Thy name had trembled on my latest breath. 
But not the chief who leads a lawless band 
To crush the altars of his native land ; 



Th' apostate son of heroes, whose disgrace 
Hath stain'd the trophies of a glorious race ; 
Not him I loved — but one whose youthful name 
Was pure and radiant in unsullied fame. 
Hadst thou but died, ere yet dishonour's cloud 
O'er that young name had gather'd as a shroud, 
I then had mourn'd thee proudly, and my grief 
In its own loftiness had found relief ; 
A noble sorrow, cherish'd to the last, 
When every meaner woe had long been past. 
Yes ! let affection weep — no common tear 
She sheds when bending o'er a hero's bier. 
Let nature mourn the dead — a grief like this, 
To pangs that rend my bosom, had been bliss ! " 

" High-minded maid ! the time admits not now 
To plead my cause, to vindicate my vow. 
That vow, too dread, too solemn, to recall, 
Hath urged me onward, haply to my fall. 
Yet this believe — no meaner aim inspires 
My soul, no dream of power ambition fires. 
No ! every hope of power, of triumph, fled, 
Behold me but th' avenger of the dead ! 
One whose changed heart no tie, no kindred knows, 
And in thy love alone hath sought repose. 
Zayda ! wilt thou his stern accuser be ? 
False to his country, he is true to thee ! 
Oh, hear me yet ! — if Hamet e'er was dear, 
By our first vows, our young affection, hear ! 
Soon must this fair and royal city fall, 
Soon shall the cross be planted on her wall ; 
Then who can tell what tides of blood may flow, 
While her fanes echo to the shrieks of woe ? 
Fly, fly with me, and let me bear thee far 
From horrors thronging in the path of war : 
Fly, and repose in safety — till the blast 
Hath made a desert in its course — and pass'd ! " 

"Thou that wilt triumph when the hour is come 
Hasten'd by thee, to seal thy country's doom, 
With thee from scenes of death shall Zayda fly 
To peace and safety 1 — Woman, too, can die ! 
And die exulting, though unknown to fame, 
In all the stainless beauty of her name ! 
Be mine, unmurmuring, undismay'd, to share 
The fate my kindred and my sire must bear. 
And deem thou not my feeble heart shall fail, 
When the clouds gather and the blasts assail. 
Thou hast but known me ere the trying hour 
Call'd into life my spirit's latent power ; 
But I have energies that idly slept, 
While withering o'er my silent woes I wept ; 
And now, when hope and happiness are fled, 
My soiil is firm — for what remains to dread ] 



76 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Who shall have power to suffer and to bear 

If strength and courage dwell not with Despair 1 

" Hamet ! farewell — retrace thy path again, 
To join thy brethren on the tented plain. 
There wave and wood in mingling murmurs tell 
How, in far other cause, thy fathers fell ! 
Yes ! on that soil hath Glory's footstep been, 
Names unforgotten consecrate the scene ! 
Dwell not the souls of heroes round thee there, 
Whose voices call thee in the whispering air 1 
Unheard, in vain they call — their fallen son 
Hath stain'd the name those mighty spirits won, 
And to the hatred of the brave and free 
Bequeath'd his own through ages yet to be !" 

Still as she spoke, th' enthusiast's kindling eye 
Was lighted up with inborn majesty, 
While her fair form and youthful features caught 
All the proud grandeur of heroic thought, 
Severely beauteous. 1 Awe-struck and amazed, 
In silent trance a while the warrior gazed, 
As on some lofty vision — for she seem'd 
One all-inspired — each look with glory beam'd, 
While, brightly bursting through its cloud of woes, 
Her soul at once in all its light arose. 
Oh ! ne'er had Hamet deem'd there dwelt enshrined 
In form so fragile that unconquer'd mind ; 
And fix'd, as by some high enchantment, there 
He stood — till wonder yielded to despair. 

" The dream is vanish'd — daughter of my foes ! 
Reft of each hope the lonely wanderer goes. 
Thy words have pierced his soul ; yet deem thou not 
Thou couldst be once adored, and e'er forgot ! 
Oh, form'd for happier love, heroic maid ! 
In grief sublime, in danger undismay'd, 
Farewell, and be thou blest ! — all words were vain 
From him who ne'er may view that form again — 
Him, whose sole thought resembling bliss, must be, 
He hath been loved, once fondly loved, by thee ! " 

And is the warrior gone 1 — doth Zayda hear 
His parting footstep, and without a tear 1 
Thou weep'st not, lofty maid ! — yet who can tell 
What secret pangs within thy heart may dwell 1 
They feel not least, the firm, the high in soul, 
Who best each feeling's agony control. 
Yes ! we may judge the measure of the grief 
Which finds in misery's eloquence relief ; 
But who shall pierce those depths of silent woe 
Whence breathes no language, whence no tears 

may flow 1 

1 " Severe in youthful beauty." — Milton. 



The pangs that many a noble breast hath proved, 
Scorning itself that thus it could be moved ? 
He, He alone, the inmost heart who knows, 
Views all its weakness, pities all its throes ; 
He who hath mercy when mankind contemn, 
Beholding anguish — all unknown to them. 

Fair city ! thou that midst thy stately fanes 
And gilded minarets, towering o'er the plains, 
In eastern grandeur proudly dost arise 
Beneath thy canopy of deep-blue skies ; [wave, 2 
While streams that bear thee treasures in their 
Thy citron-groves and myrtle-gardens lave : 
Mourn, for thy doom is fixed — the days of fear, 
Of chains, of wrath, of bitterness, are near ! 
Within, around thee, are the trophied graves 
Of kings and chiefs — their children shall be slaves. 
Fair are thy halls, thy domes majestic swell, 
But there a race that rear'd them not shall dwell ; 
For midst thy councils discord still presides, 
Degenerate fear thy wavering monarch guides — 
Last of a line whose regal spirit flown 
Hath to their offspring but bequeath'd a throne, 
Without one generous thought, or feeling high, 
To teach his soul how kings should live and die. 

A voice resounds within Granada's wall, 
The hearts of warriors echo to its call. 3 
Whose are those tones, with power electric fraught 
To reach the source of pure exalted thought 1 

See, on a fortress tower, with beckoning hand, 
A form, majestic as a prophet, stand ! 



2 Granada stands upon two hiils, separated by the Darro. 
The Xenil runs under the walls. The Darro is said to carry 
with its stream small particles of gold, and the Xenil of silver. 
When Charles V. came to Granada with the Empress Isabella, 
the city presented him with a crown made of gold, which had 
been collected from the Darro. — See Bourgoanne's and other 
Travels. 

3 " At this period, while the inhabitants of Granada were 
sunk in indolence, one of those men whose natural and im- 
passioned eloquence has sometimes aroused a people to deeds 
of heroism, raised his voice in the midst of the city, and 
awakened the inhabitants from their lethargy. Twenty 
thousand enthusiasts, ranged under his banners, were pre- 
pared to sally forth, with the fury of desperation, to attack 
the besiegers, when Abo Abdeli, more afraid of his subjects 
than of the enemy, resolved immediately to capitulate, and 
made terms with the Christians, by which it was agreed that 
the Moors should be allowed the free exercise of their religion 
and laws ; should be permitted , if they thought proper, to 
depart unmolested with their effects to Africa ; and that he 
himself, if he remained in Spain, should retain an extensive 
estate, with houses and slaves, or be granted an equivalent 
in money if he preferred retiring to Barbary." — See Jacob's 
Travels in Spain. 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 



77 



His mien is all impassion'd, and his eye 

Fill'd with a light whose fountain is on high ; 

Wild on the gale his silvery tresses flow, 

And inspiration beams upon his brow ; [gaze, 

While, thronging round him, breathless thousands 

As on some mighty seer of elder days. 

" Saw ye the banners of Castile display 'd, 
The helmets glittering, and the line array'd ] 
Heard ye the march of steel-clad hosts ]" he cries ; 
" Children of conquerors ! in your strength arise ! 
high-born tribes ! names unstain'd by fear ! 
Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, hear I 1 
Be every feud forgotten, and your hands. 
Dyed with no blood but that of hostile bands. 2 
Wake, princes of the land ! the hour is come, 
And the red sabre must decide your doom. 
Where is that spirit which prevail'd of yore, 
When Tarik's bands o'erspread the western shore 1 ? 3 
When the long combat raged on Xeres' plain, 4 
And Afric's tecbir swell'd through yielding Spain] 5 



1 Azarques, Zegris, Almoradis, different tribes of the Moors 
of Granada, all of high distinction. 

2 The conquest of Granada was greatly facilitated by the 
civil dissensions which at this period prevailed in the city. 
Several of the Moorish tribes, influenced by private feuds, 
were fully prepared for submission to the Spaniards ; others 
had embraced the cause of Muley el Zagal, the uncle and 
competitor for the throne of Abdallah, (or Abo Abdeli,) and 
all was jealousy and animosity. 

3 Tarik, the first leader of the Arabs and Moors into Spain. 
" The Saracens landed at the pillar or point of Europe. The 
corrupt and familiar appellation of Gibraltar (Gebel al Tarik) 
describes the mountain of Tarik ; and the intrenchments of 
his camp were the first outline of those fortifications which, 
in the hands of our countrymen, have resisted the art and 
power of the house of Bourbon. The adjacent governors in- 
formed the court of Toledo of the descent and progress of the 
Arabs ; and the defeat of his lieutenant Edeco, who had 
been commanded to seize and bind the presumptuous stran- 
gers, first admonished Roderic of the magnitude of the danger. 
At the royal summons, the dukes and counts, the bishops and 
nobles of the Gothic monarchy, assembled at the head of their 
followers ; and the title of king of the Romans, which is em- 
ployed by an Arabic historian, may be excused by the close 
affinity of language, religion, and manners, between the 
nations of Spain." — Gibbon's Decline and Fall, &c. vol. ix. 
p. 472, 473. 

4 " In the neighbourhood of Cadiz, the town of Xeres has 
been illustrated by the encounter which determined the fate 
of the kingdom ; the stream of the Guadalete, which falls 
into the bay, divided the two camps, and marked the advan- 
cing and retreating skirmishes of three successive days. On 
the fourth day, the two armies joined a more serious and 
decisive issue. Notwithstanding the valour of the Saracens, 
they fainted under the weight of multitudes, and the plain of 
Xeres was overspread with sixteen thousand of their dead 
bodies.—' My brethren,' said Tarik to his surviving com- 
panions, ' the enemy is before you, the sea is behind ; whither 
would ye fly ? Follow your general ; I am resolved either to 



Is the lance broken, is the shield decay'd, 

The warrior's arm unstrung, his heart dismay 'd ? 

Shall no high spirit of ascendant worth 

Arise to lead the sons of Islam forth ] 

To guard the regions where our fathers' blood 

Hath bathed each plain, and mingled with each 

flood ; 
Where long their dust hath blended with the soil 
Won by their swords, made fertile by their toil ] 

" ye sierras of eternal snow ! 
Ye streams that by the tombs of heroes flow, 
Woods, fountains, rocks of Spain ! ye saw their 

might 
In many a fierce and unforgotten fight — 
Shall ye behold their lost, degenerate race 
Dwell midst your scenes in fetters and disgrace 1 
With each memorial of the past around, 
Each mighty monument of days renown'd ? 
May this indignant heart ere then be cold, 
This frame be gather'd to its kindred mould ! 
And the last life-drop circling through my veins 
Have tinged a soil untainted yet by chains ! 

" And yet one struggle ere our doom is seal'd, 
One mighty effort, one deciding field ! 
If vain each hope, we still have choice to be 
In life the fetter' d, or in death the free ! " 

Still while he speaks each gallant heart beats 
high, 
And ardour flashes from each kindling eye ; 
Youth, manhood, age, as if inspired, have caught 
The glow of lofty hope and daring thought ; 
And all is hush'd around — as every sense 
Dwelt on the tones of that wild eloquence. 

But when his voice hath ceased, th' impetuous cry 
Of eager thousands bursts at once on high ; 
Rampart, and rock, and fortress ring around, 
And fair Alhambra's inmost halls resound. 
" Lead us, chieftain ! lead us to the strife, 
To fame in death, or liberty in life ! " 

lose my life, or to trample on the prostrate king of the Ro- 
mans.' Besides the resource of despair, he confided in the 
secret correspondence and nocturnal interviews of Count 
Julian with the sons and the brother of Witiza. The two 
princes, and the Archbishop of Toledo, occupied the most 
important post : their well-timed defection broke the ranks 
of the Christians ; each warrior was prompted by fear or sus- 
picion to consult his personal safety ; and the remains of the 
Gothic army were scattered or destroyed in the flight and 
pursuit of the three following days." — Gibbon's Decline and 
Fall, &c. vol. ix. p. 473, 474. 

5 The tecbir, the shout of onset used by the Saracens in 
battle. 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



zeal of noble hearts ! in vain display'd ! 
Now, while the burning spirit of the brave 
Is roused to energies that yet might save — 
E'en now, enthusiasts ! while ye rush to claim 
Your glorious trial on the field of fame, 
Your king hath yielded ! Valour's dream is o'er; 1 
Power, wealth, and freedom are your own no more ; 
And for your children's portion, but remains 
That bitter heritage — the stranger's chains. 



CANTO III. 

" Fermossi al fin il cor che balzo tanto." 

HlPPOLITO PlNDEMONTR. 

Heeoes of elder days ! untaught to yield, 
Who bled for Spain on many an ancient field ; 
Ye that around the oaken cross of yore 2 
Stood firm and fearless on Asturia's shore, 
And with your spirit, ne'er to be subdued, 
Hallow'd the wild Cantabrian solitude ; 
Rejoice amidst your dwellings of repose, 
In the last chastening of your Moslem foes ! 
Rejoice ! — for Spain, arising in her strength, 
Hath burst the remnant of their yoke at length, 
And they, in turn, the cup of woe must drain, 
And bathe their fetters with their tears in vain. 
And thou, the warrior born in happy hour, 3 
Valencia's lord, whose name alone was power, 
Theme of a thousand songs in days gone by, 
Conqueror of kings ! exult, Cid ! on high ; 
For still 'twas thine to guard thy country's weal, 
In life, in death, the watcher for Castile ! 

Thou, in that hour when Mauritania's bands 
Rush'd from their palmy groves and burning lands, 
E'en in the realm of spirits didst retain 
A patriot's vigilance, remembering Spain ! 4 

1 The terrors occasioned by this sudden excitement of 
popular feeling seem even to have accelerated Abo Abdeli's 
capitulation. " Aterrado Abo Abdeli con el alboroto y 
temiendo no ser ya el Duefio de un pueblo amotinado, se 
apresuro a concluir una capitulation , la menos dura que podia 
obtenir en tan urgentes circumstancias, y ofrecio entregor a 
Granada el dia seis de Enero." — Paseos en Granada, vol. i. 
p. 298. 

2 The oaken cross, carried by Pelagius in battle. 

3 See Southey's Chronicle of the Cid, in which that warrior 
is frequently styled, " he who was born in happy hour." 

4 " Moreover, when the Miramamolin brought over from 
Africa against King Don Alfonso, the eighth of that name, 
the mightiest power of the misbelievers that had ever been 
brought against Spain , since the destruction of the kings of 
the Goths, the Cid Campeador remembered his country in 



Then at deep midnight rose the mighty sound, 
By Leon heard in shuddering awe profound, 
As through her echoing streets, in dread array, 
Beings once mortal held their viewless way — 
Voices from worlds we know not — and the tread 
Of marching hosts, the armies of the dead, 
Thou and thy buried chieftains : from the grave 
Then did thy summons rouse a king to save, 
And join thy warriors with unearthly might 
To aid the rescue in Tolosa's fight. 
Those days are past — the crescent on thy shore, 
realm of evening ! sets, to rise no more. 5 
"What banner streams afar from Vela's tower ? 6 
The cross, bright ensign of Iberia's power ! 
What the glad shout of each exulting voice 1 
"Castile and Aragon ! rejoice, rejoice !" 
Yielding free entrance to victorious foes, 
The Moorish city sees her gates unclose, [lance, 
And Spain's proud host, with pennon, shield, and 
Through her long streets in knightly garb advance. 

Oh ! ne'er in lofty dreams hath Fancy's eye 
Dwelt on a scene of statelier pageantry, 
At joust or tourney, theme of poet's lore, 
High masque or solemn festival of yore. 
The gilded cupolas, that proudly rise 
O'erarch'd by cloudless and cerulean skies ; 
Tall minarets, shining mosques, barbaric towers, 
Fountains and palaces, and cypress bowers : 
And they, the splendid and triumphant throng, 
With helmets glittering as they move along, 
With broider'd scarf and gem-bestudded mail, 
And graceful plumage streaming on the gale ; 



that great danger ; for the night before the battle was fought 
at the Navas de Tolosa, in the dead of the night, a mighty 
sound was heard in the whole city of Leon, as if it were the 
tramp of a great army passing through ; and it passed on to 
the royal monastery of St Isidro, and there was a great 
knocking at the gate thereof, and they called to a priest who 
was keeping vigils in the church, and told him that the cap- 
tains of the army whom he heard were the Cid Ruydiez, and 
Count Ferran Gonzalez, and that they came there to call up 
King Don Fernando the Great, who lay buried in that church, 
that he might go with them to deliver Spain. And on the 
morrow that great battle of the Navas de Tolosa was fought, 
wherein sixty thousand of the misbelievers were slain, which 
was one of the greatest and noblest battles ever won over the 
Moors."— Southey's Chronicle of the Cid. 

5 The name of Andalusia, the region of evening, or of the 
west, was applied by the Arabs not only to the province so 
called, but to the whole peninsula. 

6 " En este dia, para siempre memorable, los estandartes 
de la Cruz, de St Jago, y el de los Reyes de Castilla se trerao- 
laran sobre la torre mas alta, llamada de la Vela; y un 
exercito prosternado, inundandose en lagrimas de gozo y re- 
conocimiento, asistio al mas glorioso de los espectaculos." — 
Paseos en Granada, vol. i. p. 299. 






THE ABENCERRAGE. 



Shields, gold-ernboss'd, and pennons floating far, 
And all the gorgeous blazonry of war, 
All brighten'd by the rich transparent hues 
That southern suns o'er heaven and earth diffuse — 
Blend in one scene of glory, form'd to throw 
O'er memory's page a never-fading glow, [brave, 
And there, too, foremost midst the conquering 
Your azure plumes, Aben-Zurrahs ! wave. 
There Hamet moves ; the chief whose lofty port 
Seems nor reproach to shun, nor praise to court ; 
Calm, stern, collected — yet within his breast 
Is there no pang, no struggle, unconfess'd 1 
If such there be, it still must dwell unseen, 
Nor cloud a triumph with a sufferer's mien. 

Hear'st thou the solemn yet exulting sound 
Of the deep anthem floating far around 1 
The choral voices, to the skies that raise 
The full majestic harmony of praise ] 
Lo ! where, surrounded by their princely train, 
They come, the sovereigns of rejoicing Spain, 
Borne on their trophied car — lo ! bursting thence 
A blaze of chivalrous magnificence ! 

Onward their slow and stately course they bend 
To where th' Alhambra's ancient towers ascend, 
Rear'd and adorn'd by Moorish kings of yore, 
Whose lost descendants there shall dwell no more. 

They reach those towers — irregularly vast 
And rude they seem, in mould barbaric cast : x 
They enter — to their wondering sight is given 
A genii palace — an Arabian heaven ! 2 
A scene by magic raised, so strange, so fair, 
Its forms and colour seem alike of air. 



1 Swinburne, after describing the noble palace built by 
Charles V. in the precincts of the Alhambra, thus proceeds : 
" Adjoining (to the north) stands a huge heap of as ugly 
buildings as can well be seen, all huddled together, seemingly 
without the least intention of forming one habitation out of 
them. The walls are entirely unornamented, all gravel and 
pebbles, daubed over with plaster by a very coarse hand ; 
yet this is the palace of the Moorish kings of Granada, indis- 
putably the most curious place within that exists in Spain, 
perhaps in Europe. In many countries you may see excel- 
lent modern as well as ancient architecture, both entire and 
in ruins ; but nothing to be met with any where else can 
convey an idea of this edifice, except you take it from the 
decorations of an opera, or the tales of the genii. "-^-Swin- 
burne's Travels through Spain. 

2 " Passing round the corner of the emperor's palace, you 
are admitted at a plain unornamented door in a corner. On 
my first visit, I confess, I was struck with amazement as I 
stept over the threshold, to find myself on a sudden trans- 
ported into a species of fairy land. The first place you come 
to is the court called the Communa, or del Mesucar, that is, 



Here, by sweet orange-boughs half shaded o'er, 

The deep clear bath reveals its marble floor, 

Its margin fringed with flowers, whose glowing hues 

The calm transparence of its wave suffuse. 

There round the court, where Moorish arches bend, 

Aerial columns, richly deck'd, ascend ; 

Unlike the models of each classic race, 

Of Doric grandeur or Corinthian grace, 

But answering well each vision that portrays 

Arabian splendour to the poet's gaze : 

Wild, wondrous, brilliant, all — a mingling glow 

Of rainbow-tints, above, around, below; 

Bright streaming from the many-tinctured veins 

Of precious marble, and the vivid stains 

Of rich mosaics o'er the light arcade, 

In gay festoons and fairy knots display'd. 

On through th' enchanted realm, that only seems 

Meet for the radiant creatures of our dreams, 

The royal conquerors pass — while still their sight 

On some new wonder dwells with fresh delight. 

Here the eye roves through slender colonnades, 

O'er bowery terraces and myrtle shades ; 

Dark olive-woods beyond, and far on high 

The vast sierra mingling with the sky. 

There, scattering far around their diamond spray, 

Clear streams from founts of alabaster play, 

Through pillar'd halls, where, exquisitely wrought, 

Rich arabesques, with glittering foliage fraught, 

Surmount each fretted arch, and lend the scene 

A wild, romantic, oriental mien : 

While many a verse, from eastern bards of old, 

Borders the walls in characters of gold. 3 

Here Moslem luxury, in her own domain, 

Hath held for ages her voluptuous reign 

Midst gorgeous domes, where soon shall silence 

brood, 
And all be lone — a splendid solitude. 

the common baths : an oblong square, with a deep basin of 
clear water in the middle ; two flights of marble steps leading 
down to the bottom ; on each side a parterre of flowers, and 
a row of orange-trees. Round the court runs a peristyle 
paved with marble ; the arches bear upon very slight pillars, 
in proportions and style different from all the regular orders 
of architecture. The ceilings and walls are incrustated with 
fretwork in stucco, so minute and intricate that the most 
patient draughtsman would find it difficult to follow it, unless 
he made himself master of the general plan." — Swinburne's 
Travels in Spain. 

3 The walls and cornices of the Alhambra are covered with 
inscriptions in Arabic characters. " In examining this abode 
of magnificence," says Bourgoanne, " the observer is every 
moment astonished at the new and interesting mixture cf 
architecture and poetry. The palace of the Alhambra may 
be called a collection of fugitive pieces ; and whatever dura- 
tion these may have, time, with which every thing passes 
away, has too much contributed to confirm to them that 
title." — See Bourgoanne's Travels in Spain. 



80 



TALES AND HISTOEIC SCENES. 



Now wake their echoes to a thousand songs, 
From mingling voices of exulting throngs ; 
Tambour and flute, and atabal are there, 1 
And joyous clarions pealing on the air ; 
"While every hall resounds, " Granada won ! 
Granada ! for Castile and Aragon ! " 2 

'Tis night — from dome and tower, in dazzling 
maze, 
The festal lamps innumerably blaze ; 3 
Through long arcades their quivering lustre gleams, 
From every lattice tremulously streams, 
Midst orange-gardens plays on fount and rill, 
And gilds the waves of Darro and Xenil ; 
Red flame the torches on each minaret's height, 
And shines each street an avenue of light ; 
And midnight feasts are held, and music's voice 
Through the long night still summons to rejoice. 

Yet there, while all would seem to heedless 

eye 
One blaze of pomp, one burst of revelry, 
Are hearts unsoothed by those delusive hours, 
Gall'd by the chain, though deck'd awhile with 

flowers ; 
Stern passions working in th' indignant breast, 
Deep pangs untold, high feelings unexpress'd, 
Heroic spirits, unsubmitting yet — 
Vengeance and keen remorse, and vain regret. 



1 Atabal, a kind of Moorish drum. 

2 " Y ansi entraron en la ciudad, y subieron al Alhambra, 
y encima de la torre de Comares tan famosa se levanto la 
seiial de la Santa Cruz, y luego el real estandarte de los dos 
Christianos reyes. Y al punto los reyes de armas, a grandes 
bozes dizieron, ' Granada ! Granada ! por su magestad, y 
por la reyna su muger.' La serinissima reyna D. Isabel, que 
vi6 la seiial de la Santa Cruz sobre la hermosa torre de 
Comares, y el su estandarte real con ella, se hinc6 de Rodillas, 
y di6 infinitas gracias a Dios por la victoria que le avia dado 
contra aquella gran ciudad. La musica real de la capilla del 
rey luego a canto de organo cant6 Te Deum laudamas. Fue 
tan grande el plazer que todos lloravan. Luego del Alhambra 
sonaron mil instrumentos de musica de belicas trompetas. Los 
Moros amigos del rey, que querian ser Christianos, cuya 
cabeza era el valerosa Muca, tomaron mil dulzaynas y ana- 
files, sonando grande ruydo de atambores por toda la ciudad." 
— Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada. 

3 " Los cavalleros Moros que avemos dicho, aquella noche 
jugaron galanamente alcancias y canas. Andava Granada 
aquella noche con tanta alegria, y con tantas luminarias, que 
parecia que se ardia la terra." — Historia de las Guerras Civiles 
de Granada. 

Swinburne, in his Travels through Spain, in the years 1775 
and 1776, mentions, that the anniversary of the surrender of 
Granada to Ferdinand and Isabella was still observed in 
the city as a great festival and day of rejoicing ; and that 
the populace on that occasion paid an annual visit to the 
Moorish palace. 



From yon proud height, whose olive-shaded brow 
Commands the wide luxuriant plains below, 
"Who lingering gazes o'er the lovely scene, 
Anguish and shame contending in his mien 
He who of heroes and of kings the son, 
Hath lived to lose whate'er his fathers won ; 
Whose doubts and fears his people's fate have seal'd, 
Wavering alike in council and in field ; 
Weak, timid ruler of the wise and brave, 
Still a fierce tyrant or a yielding slave. 

Far from these vine-clad hills and azure skies, 
To Afric's wilds the royal exile flies ; 4 
Yet pauses on his way to weep in vain 
O'er all he never must behold again. 
Fair spreads the scene around — for him too fair, 
Each glowing charm but deepens his despair. 
The Vega's meads, the city's glittering spires, 
The old majestic palace of his sires, 
The gay pavilions and retired alcoves, 
Bosom'd in citron and pomegranate groves ; 
Tower-crested rocks, and streams that wind in light, 
All in one moment bursting on his sight, 
Speak to his soul of glory's vanish'd years, 
And wake the source of unavailing tears. 
— Weep'st thou, Abdallahl — Thou dost well to 

weep, 
feeble heart ! o'er all thou couldst not keep ! 
Well do a woman's tears befit the eye 
Of him who knew not as a man to die. 5 

The gale sighs mournfully through Zay da's bower, 
The hand is gone that nursed each infant flower. 
No voice, no step, is in her father's halls, 
Mute are the echoes of their marble walls ; 
No stranger enters at the chieftain's gate, 
But all is hush'd, and void, and desolate. 

There, through each tower and solitary shade, 
In vain doth Hamet seek the Zegri maid : 
Her grove is silent, her pavilion lone, 
Her lute forsaken, and her doom unknown ; 
And through the scene she loved, unheeded flows 
The stream whose music lull'd her to repose. 

* " Los Gomeles todos se passeron en Africa, y el Rey 
Chico con ellos, que no quisd estar en Espaiia, y en Africa le 
mataron los Moros de aquellas partes, porque perdi6 a 
Granada." — Guerras Civiles de Granada. 

5 Abo Abdeli, upon leaving Granada, after its conquest by 
Ferdinand and Isabella, stopped on the hill of Padul to take 
a last look of his city and palace. Overcome by the sight, 
he burst into tears, and was thus reproached by his mother, 
the Sultaness Ayxa,— " Thou dost well to weep like a woman, 
over the loss of that kingdom which thou knewest not how to 
defend and die for like a man." 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 



81 



But oh ! to him, whose self-accusing thought 
Whispers 'twas he that desolation wrought ; 
He who his country and his faith betray'd, 
And lent Castile revengeful, powerful aid ; 
A voice of sorrow swells in every gale, 
Each wave low rippling tells a mournful tale : 
And as the shrubs, untended, unconfined, 
In wild exuberance rustle to the wind, 
Each leaf hath language to his startled sense, 
And seems to murmur — " Thou hast driven her 

hence ! " 
And well he feels to trace her flight were vain, 
— Where hath lost love been once recall'd again 1 
In her pure breast, so long by anguish torn, 
His name can rouse no feeling now — but scorn. 
bitter hour ! when first the shuddering heart 
Wakes to behold the void within — and start ! 
To feel its own abandonment, and brood 
O'er the chill bosom's depth of solitude. 
The stormy passions that in Hamet's breast 
Have sway'd so long, so fiercely, are at rest ; 
The avenger's task is closed : l — he finds too late 
It hath not changed his feelings, but his fate. 
He was a lofty spirit, turn'd aside [pride, 

From its bright path by woes, and wrongs, and 
And onward, in its new tumultuous course, 
Borne with too rapid and intense a force 
To pause one moment in the dread career, 
And ask if such could be its native sphere. 
Now are those days of wild delirium o'er, 
Their fears and hopes excite his soul no more ; 
The feverish energies of passion close, 
And his heart sinks in desolate repose, [less 

Turns sickening from the world, yet shrinks not 
From its own deep and utter loneliness. 

There is a sound of voices on the air, 
A flash of armour to the sunbeam's glare, 
Midst the wild Alpuxarras ; 2 — there, on high, 
Where mountain-snows are mingling with the sky, 
A few brave tribes, with spirits yet unbroke, 
Have fled indignant from the Spaniard's yoke. 

ye dread scenes ! where nature dwells alone, 
Severely glorious on her craggy throne ; 

1 " El rey man do, que si quedavan Zegris, que no viviessen 
en Granada, por la maldad qui hizieron contra Ios Abencer- 
rages. "—Guerras Civiles de Granada. 

2 " The Alpuxarras are so lofty that the coast of Barbary, 
and the cities of Tangier and Ceuta, are discovered from their 
summits ; they are about seventeen leagues in length, from 
Veles Malaga to Almeria, and eleven in breadth, and abound 
with fruit trees of great beauty and prodigious size. In these 
mountains the wretched remains of the Moors took refuge." 
— Bourgoanne's Travels in Spain. 



Ye citadels of rock, gigantic forms, 

Veil'd by the mists and girdled by the storms, — 

Ravines, and glens, and deep resounding caves, 

That hold communion with the torrent-waves ; 

And ye, th' unstain'd and everlasting snows, 

That dwell above in bright and still repose ; 

To you, in every clime, in every age, 

Far from the tyrant's or the conqueror's rage, 

Hath Freedom led her sons — untired to keep 

Her fearless vigils on the barren steep. 

She, like the mountain-eagle, still delights 

To gaze exulting from unconquer'd heights, 

And build her eyrie in defiance proud, 

To dare the wind, and mingle with the cloud. 

Now her deep voice, the soul's awakener, swells, 
Wild Alpuxarras ! through your inmost dells. 
There, the dark glens and lonely rocks among, 
As at the clarion's call, her children throng. 
She with enduring strength has nerved each frame, 
And made each heart the temple of her flame, 
Her own resisting spirit, which shall glow 
Unquenchably, surviving all below. 

There high-born maids, that moved upon the 
earth 
More like bright creatures of aerial birth, 
Nurslings of palaces, have fled to share 
The fate of brothers and of sires ; to bear, 
All undismay'd, privation and distress, 
And smile the roses of the wilderness : 
And mothers with their infants, there to dwell 
In the deep forest or the cavern cell, 
And rear their offspring midst the rocks, to be, 
If now no more the mighty, still the free. 

Andmidst that band are veterans, o'er whose head 
Sorrows and years their mingled snow have shed : 
They saw thy glory, they have wept thy fall, 
royal city ! and the wreck of all [main 

They loved and hallow'd most : — doth aught re- 
For these to prove of happiness or pain 1 
Life's cup is drain'd — earth fades before their eye ; 
Their task is closing — they have but to die. 
Ask ye why fled they hither 1 — that their doom 
Might be, to sink unfetter'd to the tomb. 
And youth, in all its pride of strength, is there, 
And buoyancy of spirit, form'd to dare 
And suffer all things — fall'n on evil days, 
Yet darting o'er the world an ardent gaze, 
As on the arena where its powers may find 
Full scope to strive for glory with mankind. 
Such are the tenants of the mountain-hold, 
The high in heart, unconquer'd, uncontroll'd : 



82 



TALES AND HISTOKIC SCENES. 



By day, the huntsmen of the wild — by night, 

Unwearied guardians of the watch-fire's light, 

They from their bleak majestic home have caught 

A sterner tone of unsubmitting thought, 

"While all around them bids the soul arise 

To blend with nature's dread sublimities. 

■ — But these are lofty dreams, and must not be 

Where tyranny is near :— the bended knee, 

The eye whose glance no inborn grandeur fires, 

And the tamed heart, are tributes she requires ; 

Nor must the dwellers of the rock look down 

On regal conquerors, and defy their frown. 

What warrior-band is toiling to explore 

The mountain-pass, with pine-wood shadow'd o'er, 

Startling with martial sounds each rude recess, 

Where the deep echo slept in loneliness 1 

These are the sons of Spain ! — Your foes are near, 

exiles of the wild sierra ! hear ! 

Hear ! wake ! arise ! and from your inmost caves 

Pour like the torrent in its might of waves ! 

Who leads the invaders on 1 — his features bear 
The deep-worn traces of a calm despair ; 
Yet his dark brow is haughty — and his eye 
Speaks of a soul that asks not sympathy. 
'Tis he ! 'tis he again ! the apostate chief; 
He comes in all the sternness of his grief. 
He comes, but changed in heart, no more to wield 
Falchion for proud Castile in battle-field, 
Against his country's children though he leads 
Castilian bands again to hostile deeds : 
His hope is but from ceaseless pangs to fly, 
To rush upon the Moslem spears, and die. 
So shall remorse and love the heart release, 
Which dares not dream of joy, but sighs for peace. 
The mountain-echoes are awake — a sound 
Of strife is ringing through the rocks around. 
Within the steep defile that winds between 
Cliffs piled on cliffs, a dark, terrific scene, 
Where Moorish exile and Castilian knight 
Are wildly mingling in the serried fight. 
Red flows the foaming streamlet of the glen, 
Whose bright transparence ne'er was stain'd till 

then ; 
While swell the war-note and the clash of spears 
To the bleak dwellings of the mountaineers, 
Where thy sad daughters, lost Granada ! wait 
In dread suspense the tidings of their fate.. 
But he— whose spirit, panting for its rest, 
Would fain each sword concentrate in his breast — 
Who, where a spear is pointed, or a lance 
Aim'd at another's breast, would still advance — 
Courts death in vain ; each weapon glances by, 
As if for him 'twere bliss too great to die. 



Yes, Aben-Zurrah ! there are deeper woes 
Reserved for thee ere nature's last repose ; 
Thou know'st not yet what vengeance fate can 

wreak, 
Nor all the heart can suffer ere it break. 
Doubtful and long the strife, and bravely fell 
The sons of battle in that narrow dell ; 
Youth in its light of beauty there hath pass'd, 
And age, the weary, found repose at last ; 
Till, few and faint, the Moslem tribes recoil, 
Borne down by numbers and o'erpower'd by toil. 
Dispersed, dishearten'd, through the pass they fly, 
Pierce the deep wood, or mount the cliff on high ; 
While Hamet's band in wonder gaze, nor dare 
Track o'er their dizzy path the footsteps of despair. 

Yet he, to whom each danger hath become 
A dark delight, and every wild a home, 
Still urges onward — undismay'd to tread 
Where life's fond lovers would recoil with dread. 
But fear is for the happy — they may shrink 
From the steep precipice or torrent's brink ; 
They to whom earth is paradise — their doom 
Lends no stern courage to approach the tomb : 
Not such his lot, who, school'd by fate severe, 
Were but too blest if aught remain'd to fear. 1 
Up the rude crags, whose giant masses throw 
Eternal shadows o'er the glen below : 
And by the fall, whose many-tinctured spray 
Half in a mist of radiance veils its way, 
He holds his venturous track : — supported now 
By some o'erhanging pine or ilex bough ; 
Now by some jutting stone, that seems to dwell 
Half in mid-air, as balanced by a spell. 
Now hath his footstep gain'd the summit's head, 
A level span, with emerald verdure spread, 
A fairy circle — there the heath-flowers rise, 
And the rock-rose unnoticed blooms and dies ; 
And brightly plays the stream, ere yet its tide 
In foam and thunder cleave the mountain side : 
But all is wild beyond — and Hamet's eye 
Roves o'er a world of rude sublimity. 
That dell beneath, where e'en at noon of day 
Earth's charter'd guest, the sunbeam, scarce can 

stray ; 
Around, untrodden woods ; and far above, 
Where mortal footstep ne'er may hope to rove, 
Bare granite cliffs, whose fix'd, inherent dyes 
Rival the tints that float o'er summer skies ; 2 

1 " Plut a Dieu que je craignisse ! "—Andromaque. 

2 Mrs Radcliffe, in her journey along the banks of the 
Rhine, thus describes the colours of granite rocks in the 
mountains of the Bergstrasse. " The nearer we approached 
these mountains, the more we had occasion to admire the 



THE ABENCERRAGE. 



And the pure glittering snow-realm, yet more high, 
That seems a part of heaven's eternity. 

There is no track of man where Hamet stands, 
Pathless the scene as Lybia's desert sands ; 
Yet on the calm still air a sound is heard 
Of distant voices, and the gathering-word 
Of Islam's tribes, now faint and fainter grown, 
Now but the lingering echo of a tone. 

That sound, whose cadence dies upon his ear, 
He follows, reckless if his bands are near. 
On by the rushing stream his way he bends, 
And through the mountain's forest zone ascends ; 
Piercing the still and solitary shades 
Of ancient pine, and dark luxuriant glades, 
Eternal twilight's reign : — those mazes past, 
The glowing sunbeams meet his eyes at last, 
And the lone wanderer now hath reach'd the source 
Whence the wave gushes, foaming on its course. 
But there he pauses — for the lonely scene 
Towers in such dread magnificence of mien, 
And, mingled oft with some wild eagle's cry, 
From rock-built eyrie rushing to the sky, 
So deep the solemn and majestic sound 
Of forests, and of waters murmuring round- 
That, rapt in wondering awe, his heart forgets 
Its fleeting struggles and its vain regrets. 
— What earthly feeling unabash'd can dwell 
In nature's mighty presence 1 — midst the swell 
Of everlasting hills, the roar of floods, 
And frown of rocks, and pomp of waving woods 1 
These their own grandeur on the soul impress, 
And bid each passion feel its nothingness. 

Midst the vast marble cliffs, a lofty cave 
Rears its broad arch beside the rushing wave ; 
Shadow'd by giant oaks, and rude and lone, 
It seems the temple of some power unknown, 
Where earthly being may not dare intrude 
To pierce the secrets of the solitude. 
Yet thence at intervals a voice of wail 
Is rising, wild and solemn, on the gale. 
Did thy heart thrill, Hamet ! at the tone 1 
Came it not o'er thee as a spirit's moan 1 
As some loved sound that long from earth had fled, 
The unforgotten accents of the dead ! 

various tints of their granites. Sometimes the precipices were 
of a faint pink, then of a deep red, a dull purple, or a blush 
approaching to lilac ; and sometimes gleams of a pale yellow 
mingled with the low shrubs that grew upon their sides. The 
day was cloudless and bright, and we were too near these 
heights to be deceiyed by the illusions of aerial colouring ; the 
real hues of their features were as beautiful as their magnitude 
was sublime." 



E'en thus it rose — and springing from his trance 
His eager footsteps to the sound advance. 
He mounts the cliffs, he gains the cavern floor ; 
Its dark green moss with blood is sprinkled o'er : 
He rushes on — and lo ! where Zayda rends 
Her locks, as o'er her slaughter'd sire she bends, 
Lost in despair ; — yet, as a step draws nigh, 
Disturbing sorrow's lonely sanctity, 
She lifts her head, and, all-subdued by grief, 
Views with a wild sad smile the once-loved chief; 
While rove her thoughts, unconscious of the past, 
And every woe forgetting — but the last. 

" Com'st thou to weep with me 1 — for I am left 
Alone on earth, of every tie bereft. 
Low lies the warrior on his blood-stain'd bier ; 
His child may call, but he no more shall hear. 
He sleeps — but never shall those eyes unclose ; 
'Twas not my voice that lull'd him to repose ; 
Nor can it break his slumbers. — Dost thou mourn'? 
And is thy heart, like mine, with anguish torn 1 
Weep, and my soul a joy in grief shall know, 
That o'er his grave my tears with Hamet's flow V 

But scarce her voice had breathed that well- 
known name, 
When, swiftly rushing o'er her spirit, came 
Each dark remembrance — by affliction's power 
Awhile effaced in that o'erwhelming hour, 
To wake with tenfold strength : 'twas then her eye 
Resumed its light, her mien its majesty, 
And o'er her wasted cheek a burning glow 
Spreads, while her lips' indignant accents flow. 

"Away! I dream ! Oh, how hath sorrow's might 
Bow'd down my soul, and quench'd its native light — 
That I should thus forget ! and bid thy tear 
With mine be mingled o'er a father's bier ! 
Did he not perish, haply by thy hand, 
In the last combat with thy ruthless band 1 
The morn beheld that conflict of despair : — 
'Twas then he fell — he fell! — and thou wert 

there ! 
Thou ! who thy country's children hast pursued 
To their last refuge midst these mountains rude. 
Was it for this I loved thee-? — Thou hast taught 
My soul all grief, all bitterness of thought ! 
'Twill soon be past — I bow to heaven's decree, 
Which bade each pang be minister'd by thee." 

" I had not deem'd that aught remain'd below 
For me to prove of yet untasted woe ; 
But thus to meet thee, Zayda ! can impart 
One more, one keener agony of heart. 



84 



TALES AND HISTOBIC SCENES. 



Oh, hear me yet ! — I would have died to save 

My foe, but still thy father, from the grave ; 

But in the fierce confusion of the strife, 

In my own stern despair and scorn of life, 

Borne wildly on, I saw not, knew not aught, 

Save that to perish there in vain I sought. 

And let me share thy sorrows ! — hadst thou known 

All I have felt in silence and alone, 

E'en thou mightst then relent, and deem, at last, 

A grief like mine might expiate all the past. 

"But oh ! for thee, the loved and precious flower, 
So fondly rear'd in luxury's guarded bower, 
From every danger, every storm secured, 
How hast thou suffer'd ! what hast thou endured ! 
Daughter of palaces ! and can it be 
That this bleak desert is a home for thee ! 
These rocks thy dwelling ! thou, who shouldst 

have known 
Of life the sunbeam and the smile alone ! 
Oh, yet forgive ! — be all my guilt forgot, 
Nor bid me leave thee to so rude a lot ! " 

" That lot is fix'd — 'twere fruitless to repine : 
Still must a gulf divide my fate from thine. 
I may forgive — but not at will the heart 
Can bid its dark remembrances depart 
No, Hamet I no ! — too deeply are these traced ; 
Yet the hour comes when all shall be effaced ! 
Not long on earth, not long, shall Zayda keep 
Her lonely vigils o'er the grave to weep. 
E'en now, prophetic of my early doom, 
Speaks to my soul a presage of the tomb ; 
And ne'er in vain did hopeless mourner feel 
That deep foreboding o'er the bosom steal ! 
Soon shall I slumber calmly by the side 
Of him for whom I lived, and would have died ; 
Till then, one thought shall soothe my orphan lot, 
In pain and peril — I forsook him not. 

"And now, farewell ! — behold the summer-day 
Is passing, like the dreams of life, away. 
Soon will the tribe of him who sleeps draw nigh, 
With the last rites his bier to sanctify. 
Oh, yet in time, away ! — 'twere not my prayer 
Could move their hearts a foe like thee to spare ! 
This hour they come — and dost thou scorn to fly? 
Save me that one last pang — to see thee die !" 
E'en while she speaks is heard their echoing tread ; 
Onward they move, the kindred of the dead. 
They reach the cave— they enter — slow their pace, 
And calm deep sadness marks each mourner's face; 
And all is hush'd, till he who seems to wait 
In silent stern devotedness his fate, 



Hath met their glance — then grief to fury turns; 
Each mien is changed, each eye indignant burns, 
And voices rise, and swords have left their sheath : 
Blood must atone for blood, and death for death ! 
They close around him : lofty still his mien, 
His cheek unalter'd, and his brow serene. 
Unheard, or heard in vain, is Zayda's cry ; 
Fruitless her prayer, unmark'd her agony. 
But as his foremost foes their weapons bend 
Against the life he seeks not to defend, 
Wildly she darts between — each feeling past, 
Save strong affection, which prevails at last. 
Oh, not in vain its daring ! — for the blow 
Aim'd at his heart hath bade her life-blood flow; 
And she hath sunk a martyr on the breast 
Where in that hour her head may calmly rest, 
For he is saved ! Behold the Zegri band, 
Pale with dismay and grief, around her stand : 
While, every thought of hate and vengeance o'er, 
They weep for her who soon shall weep no more. 
She, she alone is calm : — a fading smile, 
Like sunset, passes o'er her cheek the while ; 
And in her eye, ere yet it closes, dwell 
Those last faint rays, the parting soul's farewell. 

" Now is the conflict past, and I have proved 
How well, how deeply thou hast been beloved ! 
Yes ! in an hour like this 'twere vain to hide 
The heart so long and so severely tried : 
Still to thy name that heart hath fondly thrill' d, 
But sterner duties call'd — and were fulfiU'd. 
And I am blest ! — To every holier tie 
My life was faithful, — and for thee I die ! 
Nor shall the love so purified be vain ; 
Sever'd on earth, we yet shall meet again. 
Farewell ! — And ye, at Zayda's dying prayer, 
Spare him, my kindred tribe ! forgive and spare ! 
Oh ! be his guilt forgotten in his woes, 
While I, beside my sire, in peace repose." 

Now fades her cheek, her voice hath sunk, and 
death 
Sits in her eye, and struggles in her breath. 
One pang — 'tis past — her task on earth is done, 
And the pure spirit to its rest hath flown. 
But he for whom she died — oh ! who may paint 
The grief to which all other woes were faint ? 
There is no power in language to impart 
The deeper pangs, the ordeals of the heart, 
By the dread Searcher of the soul survey 'd : 
These have no words — nor are bywords portray 'd. 

A dirge is rising on the mountain-air, 
Whose fitful swells its plaintive murmurs bear 



THE WIDOW OP CEESCENTIUS. 



85 



Far o'er the Alpuxarras ; — wild its tone, 

And rocks and caverns echo, " Thou art gone ! " 

" Daughter of heroes ! thou art gone 
To share his tomb who gave thee birth : 

Peace to the lovely spirit flown ! 
It was not form'd for earth. 

Thou wert a sunbeam in thy race, 

Which brightly pass'd and left no trace. 

" But calmly sleep ! — for thou art free, 
And hands unchain'd thy tomb shall raise. 

Sleep ! they are closed at length for thee, 
Life's few and evil days ! 

Nor shalt thou watch, with tearful eye, 

The lingering death of liberty. 

" Flower of the desert ! thou thy bloom 

Didst early to the storm resign : 
We bear it still — and dark their doom 

Who cannot weep for thine ! 
For us, whose every hope is fled, 
The time is past to mourn the dead. 

" The days have been, when o'er thy bier 
Far other strains than these had flow'd ; 

Now, as a home from grief and fear, 
We hail thy dark abode ! 

We, who but linger to bequeath 

Our sons the choice of chains or death. 

" Thou art with those, the free, the brave, 

The mighty of departed years; 
And for the slumberers of the grave 

Our fate hath left no tears. 
Though loved and lost, to weep were vain 
For thee, who ne'er shalt weep again. 

" Have we not seen despoil'd by foes 

The land our fathers won of yore 1 
And is there yet a pang for those 

Who gaze on this no more ] 
Oh, that like them 'twere ours to rest ! 
Daughter of heroes ! thou art blest ! " 

A few short years, and in the lonely cave 
Where sleeps the Zegri maid, is Hamet's grave. 
Sever'd in life, united in the tomb- 
Such, of the hearts that loved so well, the doom ! 
Their dirge, of woods and waves th' eternal 

moan ; 
Their sepulchre, the pine-clad rocks alone. 
And oft beside the midnight watch-fire's blaze, 
Amidst those rocks, in long-departed days, 



(When freedom fled, to hold, sequester d there, 
The stern and lofty councils of despair,) 
Some exiled Moor, a warrior of the wild, 
Who the lone hours with mournful strains beguiled, 
Hath taught his mountain-home the tale of those 
Who thus have suffer'd, and who thus repose. 



THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 

["In the reign of Otho III. Emperor of Germany, the 
Romans, excited by their Consul, Crescentius, who ardently 
desired to restore the ancient glory of the Republic, made a 
bold attempt to shake off the Saxon yoke, and the authority 
of the popes, whose vices rendered them objects of universal 
contempt. The Consul was besieged by Otho in the Mole of 
Hadrian, which long afterwards continued to be called the 
Tower of Crescentius. Otho, after many unavailing attacks 
upon this fortress, at last entered into negotiations ; and, 
pledging his imperial word to respect the life of Crescentius, 
and the rights of the Roman citizens, the unfortunate leader 
was betrayed into his power, and immediately beheaded, 
with many of his partisans. Stephania, his widow, conceal- 
ing her affliction and her resentment for the insults to which 
she had been exposed, secretly resolved to revenge her hus- 
band and herself. On the return of Otho from a pilgrimage 
to Mount Gargano, which perhaps a feeling of remorse had 
induced him to undertake, she found means to be intro- 
duced to him, and to gain his confidence ; and a poison ad- 
ministered by her was soon afterwards the cause of his pain- 
ful death."— Sismondi, History of the Italian Republics, 
vol. L] 

" L'orage peut briser en un moment les fleurs q,ui tiennent encore la 
tete fevee."— Mad. de Stael. 

Midst Tivoli's luxuriant glades, 
Bright-foaming falls, and olive shades, 
Where dwelt, in days departed long, 
The sons of battle and of song, 
No tree, no shrub its foliage rears 
But o'er the wrecks of other years, 
Temples and domes, which long have been 
The soil of that enchanted scene. 

There the wild fig-tree and the vine 
O'er Hadrian's mouldering villa twine ; * 

1 " J'^tais alle" passer quelques jours seuls a Tivoli. Je 
parcourus les environs, et surtout celles de la Villa Adriana. 
Surpris par la pluie au milieu de ma course, je me refugiai 
dans les Salles des Thermes voisins du Pe'cile, (monumens de 
la villa,) sous un figuier qui avait renverse' le pan d'un mur 
en s'elevant. Dans un petit salon octogone, ouvert devant 
moi, une vigne vierge avait perce" la voute de l'^dince, et son 
gros cep lisse, rouge, et tortueux, montait le long du mur 
comme un serpent. Autour de moi, a travers les arcades des 
mines, s'ouvraient des points de vue sur la Campagne Ro- 
maine. Des buissons de sureau remplissaient les salles de- 
sertes oil venaient se r^fugier quelques merles solitaires. 



86 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



The cypress, in funereal grace, 
Usurps the vanish'd column's place ; 
O'er fallen shrine and ruin'd frieze 
The wall-flower rustles in the breeze ; 
Acanthus-leaves the marble hide 
They once adorn'd in sculptured pride; 
And nature hath resumed her throne 
O'er the vast works of ages flown. 

Was it for this that many a pile, 
Pride of Ilissus and of Nile, 
To Anio's banks the image lent 
Of each imperial monument I 1 
Now Athens weeps her shatter'd fanes, 
Thy temples, Egypt, strew thy plains ; 
And the proud fabrics Hadrian rear'd 
From Tibur's vale have disappear'd. 
We need no prescient sibyl there 
The doom of grandeur to declare ; 
Each stone, where weeds and ivy climb, 
Reveals some oracle of Time ; 
Each relic utters Fate's decree — • 
The future as the past shall be. 

Halls of the dead ! in Tibur's vale, 
Who now shall tell your lofty tale 1 
Who trace the high patrician's dome, 
The bard's retreat, the hero's home 1 
When moss-clad wrecks alone record 
There dwelt the world's departed lord, 
In scenes where verdure's rich array 
Still sheds young beauty o'er decay, 
And sunshine on each glowing hill 
Midst ruins finds a dwelling still. 

Sunk is thy palace — but thy tomb, 
Hadrian ! hath shared a prouder doom. 2 



Les fragmens de maeonnerie eHaient tapiss^es de feuilles de 
scolopendre, dont la verdure satinet se dessinait comme un 
travail en mosai'que sur la blancheur des marbres : 9a et la de 
hauts cypres rempla9aient les colonnes tomb^es dans ces palais 
de la Mort ; l'acanthe sauvage rampait a leurs pieds, sur des 
debris, comme si la nature s'dtait plu a reproduire sur ces 
chefs-d'oeuvre mutiles d'architecture, 1'ornement de leur 
beaute" passee." — Chateaubriand's Souvenirs d' Italic. 

1 The gardens and buildings of Hadrian's villa were copies 
of the most celebrated scenes and edifices in his dominions — 
the Lycaeum, the Academia, the Prytaneum of Athens, the 
Temple of Serapis at Alexandria, the Vale of Tempe, &c. 

2 The mausoleum of Hadrian, now the castle of St Angelo, 
was first converted into a citadel by Belisarius, in his suc- 
cessful defence of Rome against the Goths. " The lover of 
the arts," says Gibbon, "must read with a sigh that the 
works of Praxiteles and Lysippus were torn from their lofty 
pedestals, and hurled into the ditch on the heads of the be- 
siegers." He adds, in a note, that the celebrated Sleeping 



Though vanish'd with the days of old 
Its pillars of Corinthian mould ; 
Though the fair forms by sculpture wrought, 
Each bodying some immortal thought, 
Which o'er that temple of the dead 
Serene but solemn beauty shed, 
Have found, like glory's self, a grave 
In time's abyss or Tiber's wave ; 3 
Yet dreams more lofty and more fair 
Than art's bold hand hath imaged e'er, 
High thoughts of many a mighty mind 
Expanding when all else declined, 
In twilight years, when only they 
Recall'd the radiance pass'd away, 
Have made that ancient pile their home, 
Fortress of freedom and of Rome. 

There he, who strove in evil days 
Again to kindle glory's rays, 
Whose spirit sought a path of light 
For those dim ages far too bright — 
Crescentius — long maintain'd the strife 
Which closed but with its martyr's life, 
And left th' imperial tomb a name, 
A heritage of holier fame. 
There closed De Brescia's mission high, 
From thence the patriot came to die ; 4 

Faun of the Barberini palace was found, in a mutilated state, 
when the ditch of St Angelo was cleansed under Urban VIII. 
In the middle ages, the Moles Hadriani was made a per- 
manent fortress by the Roman government, and bastions, 
outworks, &c. were added to the original edifice, which had 
been stripped of its marble covering, its Corinthian pillars, 
and the brazen cone which crowned its summit. 

3 " Les plus beaux monumens des arts, les plus admirables 
statues, ont 6t<$s jet^es dans le Tibre, et sont cachees sous 
ses flots. Qui sait si, pour les chercher, on ne le d^tournera 
pas un jour de son lit ? Mais quand on songe que les chefs- 
d'ceuvres du genie humain sont peut-etre la devant nous, et 
qu'un ceil plus perpant les verrait a travers les ondes, Ton 
£prouve je ne sais quelle Amotion, qui renait a Rome sans 
cesse sous diverses formes, et fait trouver une soci^te pour 
la pensee dans les objets physiques, muets partout ailleurs." 
— Mad. de Stael. 

4 Arnold de Brescia, the undaunted and eloquent champion 
of Roman liberty, after unremitting efforts to restore the 
ancient constitution of the republic, was put to death in the 
year 1155 by Adrian IV. This event is thus described by 
Sismondi, Histoire des Republiqucs Italicnnes, vol. ii. pages 
68 and 69. " Le preset demeura dans le chateau Saint 
Ange avec son prisonnier : il le fit transporter un matin sur 
la place destined aux executions, devant la porte du peuple. 
Arnaud de Brescia, eUeve' sur un bucher, fut attache - a un 
poteau, en face du Corso. II pouvoit mesurer des yeux les 
trois longues rues qui aboutissoient devant son ^chafaud ; 
elles font presqu' une moitie' de Rome. C'est la qu'habi- 
toient les hommes qu'il avoit si souvent appeles a la liberty, 
lis feposoient encore en paix, ignorant le danger de leur legis- 
lateur. Le tumulte de l'ex^cution et la flamme du bucher 



THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 



87 



And thou, whose Roman soul the last 

Spoke with the voice of ages past, 1 

Whose thoughts so long from earth had fled 

To mingle with the glorious dead, 

That midst the world's degenerate race 

They vainly sought a dwelling-place, 

Within that house of death didst brood 

O'er visions to thy ruin woo'd. 

Yet, worthy of a brighter lot, 

Rienzi, be thy faults forgot ! 

For thou, when all around thee lay 

Chain'd in the slumbers of decay — 

So sunk each heart, that mortal eye 

Had scarce a tear for liberty — ■ 

Alone, amidst the darkness there, 

Couldst gaze on Rome — yet not despair ! 2 

'Tis morn — and nature's richest dyes 
Are floating o'er Italian skies ; 
Tints of transparent lustre shine 
Along the snow-clad Apennine ; 
The clouds have left Soracte's height. 
And yellow Tiber winds in light, 
Where tombs and fallen fanes have strew'd 
The wide Campagnas solitude. 
'Tis sad amidst that scene to trace 
Those relics of a vanish'd race ; 
Yet, o'er the ravaged path of time — 
Such glory sheds that brilliant clime, 
Where nature still, though empires fall, 
Holds her triumphant festival — 
E'en desolation wears a smile, 
Where skies and sunbeams laugh the while ; 
And heaven's own light, earth's richest bloom, 
Array the ruin and the tomb. 

But she, who from yon convent tower 
Breathes the pure freshness of the hour ; 



reveillerent les Romains ; ils s'armerent, ils accoururent, 
mais trop tard ; et les cohortes du pape repousserent, avec 
leurs lances, ceux qui, n'ayant pu sauver Arnaud, vouloient du 
ruoins recueillir ses cendres comme de pr^cieuses reliques." 

1 " Posterity will compare the virtues and failings of this 
extraordinary man ; but in a long period of anarchy and ser- 
vitude, the name of Rienzi has often heen celebrated as the 
deliverer of his country, and the last of the Roman patriots." 
— Gibbon's Decline and Fall, &c. vol. xii. p. 362. 

2 "Le consul Terentius Varron avoit fui honteusement 
jusqu'a Venouse. Cet homme, de la plus basse naissance, 
n 'avoit ete' eleve' au consulat que pour mortifier la noblesse : 
mais le s^nat ne voulut pas jouir de ce malheureux tri- 
omphe ; il vit combien il etoit n^cessaire qull s'attirat dans 
cette occasion la confiance du peuple — il alia au-devant 
Varron, et le remercia de ce qu'il rfavoit pas desespiri de 
la republique." — Montesquieu's Grandeur et Decadence 
des Romains. 



She, whose rich flow of raven hair 

Streams wildly on the morning air, 

Heeds not how fair the scene below, 

Robed in Italia's brightest glow. 

Though throned midst Latium's classic plains 

Th' Eternal City's towers and fanes, 

And they, the Pleiades of earth, 

The seven proud hills of Empire's birth, 

Lie spread beneath ; not now her glance 

Roves o'er that vast sublime expanse ; 

Inspired, and bright with hope, 'tis thrown 

On Adrian's massy tomb alone ; 

There, from the storm, when Freedom fled, 

His faithful few Crescentius led ; 

While she, his anxious bride, who now 

Bends o'er the scene her youthful brow, 

Sought refuge in the hallow'd fane, 

Which then could shelter, not in vain. 

But now the lofty strife is o'er, 
And Liberty shall weep no more. 
At length imperial Otho's voice 
Bids her devoted sons rejoice ; 
And he, who battled to restore 
The glories and the rights of yore, 
Whose accents, like the clarion's sound, 
Could burst the dead repose around, 
Again his native Rome shall see 
The sceptred city of the free ! 
And young Stephania waits the hour 
When leaves her lord his fortress-tower — 
Her ardent heart with joy elate, 
That seems beyond the reach of fate ; 
Her mien, like creature from above, 
All vivified with hope and love. 

Fair is her form, and in her eye 
Lives all the soul of Italy ; 
A meaning lofty and inspired, 
As by her native day-star fired ; 
Such wild and high expression, fraught 
With glances of impassion'd thought, 
As fancy sheds, in visions bright, 
O'er priestess of the God of Light ; 
And the dark locks that lend her face 
A youthful and luxuriant grace, 
Wave o'er her cheek, whose kindling dyes 
Seem from the fire within to rise, 
But deepen'd by the burning heaven 
To her own land of sunbeams given. 
Italian art that fervid glow 
Would o'er ideal beauty throw, 
And with such ardent life express 
Her high- wrought dreams of loveliness, — 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Dreams which, surviving Empire's fall, 
The shade of glory still recall. 

But see ! — the banner of the brave 
O'er Adrian's tomb hath ceased to wave. 
'Tis lower' d — and now Stephania's eye 
Can well the martial train descry, 
Who, issuing from that ancient dome, 
Pour through the crowded streets of Rome. 
Now from her watch-tower on the height, 
With step as fabled wood-nymph's light, 
She flies — and swift her way pursues 
Through the lone convent's avenues. 
Dark cypress groves, and fields o'erspread 
With records of the conquering dead, 
And paths which track a glowing waste, 
She traverses in breathless haste ; 
And by the tombs where dust is shrined 
Once tenanted by loftiest mind, 
Still passing on, hath reach'd the gate 
Of Rome, the proud, the desolate ! 
Throng'd are the streets, and, still renew'd, 
Rush on the gathering multitude. 
— Is it their high-soul'd chief to greet 
That thus the Roman thousands meet 1 
With names that bid their thoughts ascend, 
Crescentius ! thine in song to blend ; 
And of triumphal days gone by 
Recall th' inspiring pageantry ] 
— There is an air of breathless dread, 
An eager glance, a hurrying tread ; 
And now a fearful silence round, 
And now a fitful murmuring sound, 
Midst the pale crowds, that almost seem 
Phantoms of some tumultuous dream. 
Quick is each step and wild each mien, 
Portentous of some awful scene. 
Bride of Crescentius ! as the throng 
Bore thee with whelming force along, 
How did thine anxious heart beat high, 
Till rose suspense to agony ! — • 
Too brief suspense, that soon shall close, 
And leave thy heart to deeper woes. 

Who midst yon guarded precinct stands, 
With fearless mien but fetter'd hands ] 
The ministers of death are nigh, 
Yet a calm grandeur lights his eye ; 
And in his glance there lives a mind 
Which was not form'd for chains to bind, 
But cast in such heroic mould 
As theirs, th' ascendant ones of old. 
Crescentius ! freedom's daring son, 
Is this the guerdon thou hast won 1 



Oh, worthy to have lived and died 
In the bright days of Latium's pride ! 
Thus must the beam of glory close 
O'er the seven hills again that rose, 
When at thy voice, to burst the yoke, 
The soul of Rome indignant woke 1 
Vain dream ! the sacred shields are gone, 1 
Sunk is the crowning city's throne : 2 
Th' illusions, that around her cast 
Their guardian spells, have long been past. 3 
Thy life hath been a shot-star's ray, 
Shed o'er her midnight of decay ; 
Thy death at freedom's ruin'd shrine 
Must rivet every chain — but thine. 

Calm is his aspect, and his eye 
Now fix'd upon the deep blue sky, 
Now on those wrecks of ages fled 
Around in desolation spread — 
Arch, temple, column, worn and gray, 
Recording triumphs pass'd away ; 

1 Of the sacred bucklers, or ancilia of Rome, which were 
kept in the temple of Mars, Plutarch gives the following 
account : — " In the eighth year of Numa's reign, a pestilence 
prevailed in Italy ; Rome also felt its ravages. While the 
people were greatly dejected, we are told that a brazen buckler 
fell from heaven into the hands of Numa. Of this he gave a 
very wonderful account, received from Egeria and the Muses : 
that the buckler was sent down for the preservation of the 
city, and should be kept with great care ; that eleven others 
should be made as like it as possible in size and fashion, in 
order that, if any person were disposed to steal it, he might 
not be able to distinguish that which fell from heaven from 
the rest. He further declared, that the place, and the mea- 
dows about it, where he frequently conversed with the 
Muses, should be consecrated to those divinities ; and that 
the spring which watered the ground should be sacred to the 
use of the Vestal Virgins, daily to sprinkle and purify 
their temple. The immediate cessation of the pestilence is 
said to have confirmed the truth of this account." — Life of 
Numa. 

2 " Who hath taken this counsel against Tyre, the crowning 
city, whose merchants are princes, whose traffickers are the 
honourable of the earth?" — Isaiah, chap. 23. 

3 " Un melange bizarre de grandeur d'ame et de foiblesse 
entroit des cette epoque (l'onzieme siecle) dans le caractere 
des Romains. Un mouvement g^ne>eux vers les grandes 
choses faisoit place tout-a-coup a l'abattement ; ils passoient 
de la liberty la plus orageuse, a la servitude la plus avilis- 
sante. On auroit dit que les ruines et les portiques d&erts 
de la capitale du monde, entretenoient ses habitans dans le 
sentiment de leur impuissance ; au milieu de ces monumens 
de leur domination passee, les citoyens ^prouvoient d'une 
maniere trop decourageante leur propre nullity. Le nom des 
Romains qu'ils portoient ranimoit fr^quemment leur enthou- 
siasme, comme il le ranime encore aujourd'hui ; mas bientot 
la vue de Rome, du forum desert, des sept collines de nouveau 
rendues au paturage des troupeaux, des temples, demotes, des 
monumens tombant en ruine, les ramenoit a sentir qu'ils 
n'^toient plus les Romains d'autrefois." — Sismondi, Histoire 
des Rdpubliques Italicnncs, vol. i. p. 172. 



THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 



Works of the mighty and the free, 

Whose steps on earth no more shall be, 

Though their bright course hath left a trace 

Nor years nor sorrows can efface. 

Why changes now the patriot's mien, 

Erewhile so loftily serene ! 

Thus can approaching death control 

The might of that commanding soul 1 

No ! — Heard ye not that thrilling cry 

Which told of bitterest agony ] 

He heard it, and at once, subdued, 

Hath sunk the hero's fortitude. 

He heard it, and his heart too well 

Whence rose that voice of woe can tell ; 

And midst the gazing throngs around 

One well-known form his glance hath found — 

One fondly loving and beloved, 

In grief, in peril, faithful proved. 

Yes ! in the wildness of despair, 

She, his devoted bride, is there. 

Pale, breathless, through the crowd she 

flies, 
The light of frenzy in her eyes : 
But ere her arms can clasp the form 
Which life ere long must cease to warm — 
Ere on his agonising breast - 
Her heart can heave, her head can rest — 
Check'd in her course by ruthless hands, 
Mute, motionless, at once she stands ; 
With bloodless cheek and vacant glance, 
Frozen and fix'd in horror's trance ; 
Spell-bound, as every sense were fled, 
And thought o'erwhelm'd, and feeling dead ; 
And the light waving of her hair, 
And veil, far floating on the air, 
Alone, in that dread moment, show 
She is no sculptured form of woe. 

The scene of grief and death is o'er, 
The patriot's heart shall throb no more : 
But hers — so vainly form'd to prove 
The pure devotedness of love, 
And draw from fond affection's eye 
All thought sublime, all feeling high — 
When consciousness again shall wake, 
Hath now no refuge but to break. 
The spirit long inured to pain 
May smile at fate in calm disdain, 
Survive its darkest hour, and rise 
In more majestic energies.- 
But in the glow of vernal pride, 
If each warm hope at once hath died, 
Then sinks the mind, a blighted flower, 
Dead to the sunbeam and the shower : 



A broken gem, whose inborn light 
Is scatter' d — ne'er to re-unite. 



PART II. 

Hast thou a scene that is not spread 
With records of thy glory fled 1 
A monument that doth not tell 
The tale of liberty's farewell ] 
Italia ! thou art but a grave 
Where flowers luxuriate o'er the brave, 
And nature gives her treasures birth 
O'er all that hath been great on earth. 
Yet smile thy heavens as once they smiled 
When thou wert freedom's favour'd child : 
Though fane and tomb alike are low, 
Time hath not dimm'd thy sunbeam's glow ; 
And, robed in that exulting ray, 
Thou seem'st to triumph o'er decay — 
Oh, yet, though by thy sorrows bent, 
In nature's pomp magnificent ! 
What marvel if, when all was lost, 
Still on thy bright enchanted coast, 
Though many an omen warn'd him thence, 
Linger'd the lord of eloquence, 1 

1 " As for Cicero, he was carried to Astyra, where, finding 
a vessel, he immediately went on board, and coasted along 
to Circaeum with a favourable wind. The pilots were pre- 
paring immediately to sail from thence, but whether it was 
that he feared the sea, or had not yet given up all his hopes 
in Caesar, he disembarked, and travelled a hundred furlongs 
on foot, as if Rome had been the place of his destination. 
Repenting, however, afterwards, he left that road, and made 
again for the sea. He passed the night in the most per- 
plexing and horrid thoughts ; insomuch, that he was some- 
times inclined to go privately into Caesar's house, and stab 
himself upon the altar of his domestic gods, to bring the 
divine vengeance upon his betrayer. But he was deterred 
from this by the fear of torture. Other alternatives, equally 
distressful, presented themselves. At last he put himself in 
the hands of his servants, and ordered them to carry him by 
sea to Cajeta, where he had a delightful retreat in the sum- 
mer, when the Etesian winds set in. There was a temple of 
Apollo on that coast, from which a flight of crows came with 
great noise towards Cicero's vessel as it was making land. 
They perched on both sides the sail-yard, where some sat 
croaking, and others pecking the ends of the ropes. All 
looked upon this as an ill omen ; yet Cicero went on shore, 
and, entering his house, lay down to repose himself. In the 
meantime a number of the crows settled in the chamber- 
window, and croaked in the most doleful manner. One of 
them even entered it, and, alighting on the bed, attempted 
with its beak to draw off the clothes with which he had 
covered his face. On sight of this, the servants began to 
reproach themselves. ' Shall we,' said they, ' remain to be 
spectators of our master's murder? Shall we not protect 
him, so innocent and so great a sufferer as he is, when the 



90 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Still gazing on the lovely sky, 

Whose radiance woo'd him — but to die 1 

Like him, who would not linger there, 

Where heaven, earth, ocean, all are fair ? 

Who midst thy glowing scenes could dwell, 

Nor bid awhile his griefs farewell 1 

Hath not thy pure and genial air 

Balm for all sadness but despair I 1 

No ! there are pangs whose deep-worn trace 

Not all thy magic can efface ! 

Hearts by unkindness wrung may learn 

The world and all its gifts to spurn ; 

Time may steal on with silent tread, 

And dry the tear that mourns the dead, 

May change fond love, subdue regret, 

And teach e'en vengeance to forget : 

But thou, Remorse ! there is no charm 

Thy sting, avenger, to disarm ! 

Vain are bright suns and laughing skies 

To soothe thy victim's agonies : 

The heart once made thy burning throne, 

Still, while it beats, is thine alone. 

In vain for Otho's joyless eye 
Smile the fair scenes of Italy, 
As through her landscapes' rich array 
Th' imperial pilgrim bends his way. 
Thy form, Crescentius ! on his sight 
Rises when nature laughs in light, 
Glides round him at the midnight hour, 
Is present in his festal bower, 
With awful voice and frowning mien, 
By all but him unheard, unseen. 
Oh ! thus to shadows of the grave 
Be every tyrant still a slave ! 

Where, through Gargano's woody dells, 
O'er bending oaks the north wind swells, 2 

brute creatures give him marks of their care and attention ? ' 
Then, partly by entreaty, partly by force, they got him into 
his litter, and carried him towards the sea." — Plutarch, 
Life of Cicero. 

1 " Now purer air 
Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires 
Vernal delight and joy, able to drive 
All sadness but despair." — Milton. 

2 Mount Gargano. " This ridge of mountains forms a very 
large promontory advancing into the Adriatic, and separated 
from the Apennines on the west by the plains of Lucera and 
San Severo. We took a ride into the heart of the mountains 
through shady dells and noble woods, which brought to our 
minds the venerable groves that in ancient times bent with 
the loud winds sweeping along the rugged sides of Garganus : 
' Aquilonibus 

Querceta Gargani laborant, 

Et foliis viduantur orni.'— Horace. 



A sainted hermit's lowly tomb 
Is bosom'd in umbrageous gloom, 
In shades that saw him live and die 
Beneath their waving canopy. 
'Twas his, as legends tell, to share 
The converse of immortals there ; 
Around that dweller of the wild 
There "bright appearances" have smiled, 3 
And angel-wings at eve have been 
Gleaming the shadowy boughs between. 
And oft from that secluded bower 
Hath breathed, at midnight's calmer hour, 
A swell of viewless harps, a sound 
Of warbled anthems pealing round. 
Oh, none but voices of the sky 
Might wake that thrilling harmony, 
Whose tones, whose very echoes made 
An Eden of the lonely shade ! 
Years have gone by ; the hermit sleeps 
Amidst Gargano's woods and steeps ; 
Ivy and flowers have half o'ergrown 
And veil'd his low sepulchral stone : 
Yet still the spot is holy, still 
Celestial footsteps haunt the hill ; 
And oft the awe-struck mountaineer 
Aerial vesper-hymns may hear 
Around those forest-precincts float, 
Soft, solemn, clear, but still remote. 
Oft will Affliction breathe her plaint 
To that rude shrine's departed saint, 
And deem that spirits of the blest 
There shed sweet influence o'er her breast. 

And thither Otho now repairs, 
To soothe his soul with vows and prayers ; 
And if for him, on holy ground, 
The lost one, Peace, may yet be found, 
Midst rocks and forests, by the bed 
Where calmly sleep the sainted dead, 
She dwells, remote from heedless eye, 
With nature's lonely majesty. 

Vain, vain the search ! — his troubled breast 
Nor vow nor penance lulls to rest : 
The weary pilgrimage is o'er, 
The hopes that cheer'd it are no more. 
Then sinks his soul, and day by day 
Youth's buoyant energies decay. 

" There is still a respectable forest of evergreen and com- 
mon oak, pine, hornbeam, chestnut, and manna-ash. The 
sheltered valleys are industriously cultivated, and seem to be 
blest with luxuriant vegetation." — Swinburne's Travels. 

3 " In yonder nether world where shall I seek 

His bright appearances, or footstep trace ? " — Milton 



THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS. 



91 



The light of health his eye hath flown, 
The glow that tinged his cheek is gone. 
Joyless as one on whom is laid 
Some baleful spell that bids him fade, 
Extending its mysterious power 
O'er every scene, o'er every hour : 
E'en thus he withers ; and to him 
Italia's brilliant skies are dim. 
He withers — in that glorious clime 
Where Nature laughs in scorn of Time ; 
And suns, that shed on all below 
Their full and vivifying glow, 
From him alone their power withhold, 
And leave his heart in darkness cold. 
Earth blooms around him, heaven is fair — 
He only seems to perish there. 

Yet sometimes will a transient smile 
Play o'er his faded cheek awhile, 
When breathes his minstrel boy a strain 
Of power to lull all earthly pain — 
So wildly sweet, its notes might seem 
Th' ethereal music of a dream, 
A spirit's voice from worlds unknown, 
Deep thrilling power in every tone ! 
Sweet is that lay ! and yet its flow 
Hath language only given to woe ; 
And if at times its wakening swell 
Some tale of glory seems to tell, 
Soon the proud notes of triumph die, 
Lost in a dirge's harmony. 
Oh ! many a pang the heart hath proved, 
Hath deeply suffer' d, fondly loved, 
Ere the sad strain could catch from thence 
Such deep impassion'd eloquence ! 
Yes ! gaze on him, that minstrel boy — 
He is no child of hope and joy ! 
Though few his years, yet have they been 
Such as leave traces on the mien, 
And o'er the roses of our prime 
Breathe other blights than those of time. 

Yet seems his spirit wild and proud, 
By grief unsoften'd and unbow'd. 
Oh ! there are sorrows which impart 
A sternness foreign to the heart, 
And, rushing with an earthquake's power, 
That makes a desert in an hour, 
Rouse the dread passions in their course, 
As tempests wake the billows' force ! — 
'Tis sad, on youthful Guido's face, 
The stamp of woes like these to trace. 
Oh ! where can ruins awe mankind 
Dark as the ruins of the mind 1 



His mien is lofty, but his gaze 
Too well a wandering soul betrays : 
His full dark eye at times is bright 
With strange and momentary light, 
Whose quick uncertain flashes throw 
O'er his pale cheek a hectic glow : 
And oft his features and his air 
A shade of troubled mystery wear, 
A glance of hurried wildness, fraught 
With some unfathomable thought. 
Whate'er that thought, still unexpress'd 
Dwells the sad secret in his breast ; 
The pride his haughty brow reveals 
All other passion well conceals — 
He breathes each wounded feeling's tone 
In music's eloquence alone ; 
His soul's deep voice is only pour'd 
Through his full song and swelling chord. 

He seeks no friend, but shuns the train 
Of courtiers with a proud disdain ; 
And, save when Otho bids his lay 
Its half unearthly power essay 
In hall or bower the heart to thrill, 
His haunts are wild and lonely still. 
Far distant from the heedless throng, 
He roves old Tiber's banks along, 
Where Empire's desolate remains 
Lie scatter'd o'er the silent plains ; 
Or, lingering midst each ruin'd shrine 
That strews the desert Palatine, 
With mournful yet commanding mien, 
Like the sad genius of the scene, 
Entranced in awful thought appears 
To commune with departed years. 
Or at the dead of night, when Rome 
Seems of heroic shades the home ; 
When Tiber's murmuring voice recalls 
The mighty to their ancient halls ; 
When hush'd is every meaner sound, 
And the deep moonlight-calm around 
Leaves to the solemn scene alone 
The majesty of ages flown — 
A pilgrim to each hero's tomb, 
He wanders through the sacred gloom ; 
And midst those dwellings of decay 
At times will breathe so sad a lay, 
So wild a grandeur in each tone, 
'Tis like a dirge for empires gone ! 

Awake thy pealing harp again, 
But breathe a more exulting strain, 
Young Guido ! for awhile forgot 
Be the dark secrets of thy lot, 



92 TALES AND HISTOEIC SCENES. 


And rouse th' inspiring soul of song 


Oh ! well was mix'd the deadly draught, 


To speed the banquet's hour along ! — 


And long and deeply hast thou quaff 'd; 


The feast is spread, and music's call 


And bitter as thy pangs may be, 


Is echoing through the royal hall, 


They are but guerdons meet from me ! 


And banners wave and trophies shine 


Yet these are but a moment's throes — 


O'er stately guests in glittering line ; 


Howe'er intense, they soon shall close. 


And Otho seeks awhile to chase 


Soon shalt thou yield thy fleeting breath — 


The thoughts he never can erase, 


My life hath been a lingering death, 


And bid the voice, whose murmurs deep 


Since one dark hour of woe and crime, 


Rise like a spirit on his sleep — • 


A blood-spot on the page of time ! 


The still small voice of conscience — die, 




Lost in the din of revelry. 


"Deem'st thou my mind of reason void] 


On his pale brow dejection lowers, 


It is not frenzied — but destroy'd ! 


But that shall yield to festal hours ; 


Ay ! view the wreck with shuddering thought — ■ 


A gloom is in his faded eye, 


That work of ruin thou hast wrought ! 


But that from music's power shall fly ; 


The secret of thy doom to tell, 


His wasted cheek is wan with care, 


My name alone suffices well ! 


But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there. 


Stephania ! — once a hero's bride ! 


Wake, Guido ! wake thy numbers high, 


Otho ! thou know'st the rest — he died. 


Strike the bold chord exultingly ! 


Yes ! trusting to a monarch's word, 


And pour upon the enraptured ear 


The Roman fell, untried, unheard ! 


Such strains as warriors love to hear ! 


And thou, whose every pledge was vain, 


Let the rich mantling goblet flow, 


How couldst thou trust in aught again % 


And banish aught resembling woe ; 




And if a thought intrude, of power 


" He died, and I was changed — my soul, 


To mar the bright convivial hour, 


A lonely wanderer, spurn'd control. 


Still must its influence lurk unseen, 


From peace, and light, and glory hurl'd, 


And cloud the heart — but not the mien ! 


The outcast of a purer world, 




I saw each brighter hope o'erthrown, 


Away, vain dream ! — on Otho's brow, 


And lived for one dread task alone. 


Still darker lower the shadows now ; 


The task is closed, fulfill'd the vow— 


Changed are his features, now o'erspread 


The hand of death is on thee now. 


With the cold paleness of the dead ; 


Betrayer ! in thy turn betray'd, 


Now crimson'd with a hectic dye, 


The debt of blood shall soon be paid ! 


The burning flush of agony ! 


Thine hour is come — the time hath been 


His lip is quivering, and his breast 


My heart had shrunk from such a scene ; 


Heaves with convulsive pangs oppress'd ; 


That feeling long is past — my fate 


Now his dim eye seems fix'd and glazed, 


Hath made me stern as desolate. 


And now to heaven in anguish raised ; 




And as, with unavailing aid, 


" Ye that around me shuddering stand, 


Around him throng his guests dismay' d, 


Ye chiefs and princes of the land ! 


He sinks — while scarce his struggling breath 


Mourn ye a guilty monarch's doom 1 ? 


Hath power to falter — "This is death !" 


Ye wept not o'er the patriot's tomb ! 




He sleeps unhonour'd — yet be mine 


Then rush'd that haughty child of song, 


To share his low, neglected shrine. 


Dark Guido, through the awe-struck throng. 


His soul with freedom finds a home, 


Fill'd with a strange delirious light, 


His grave is that of glory — Rome ! 


His kindling eye shone wildly bright ; 


Are not the great of old with her, 


And on the sufferer's mien awhile 


That city of the sepulchre ? 


Gazing with stern vindictive smile, 


Lead me to death ! and let me share, 


A feverish glow of triumph dyed 


The slumbers of the mighty there !" 


His burning cheek, while thus he cried : — 




" Yes ! these are death-pangs — on thy brow 


The day departs — that fearful day 


Is set the seal of vengeance now ! 


Fades in calm loveliness away : 



THE LAST BANQUET OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 



93 



From purple heavens its lingering beam 
Seems melting into Tiber's stream, 
And softly tints each Eoman hill 
With glowing light, as clear and still 
As if, unstain'd by crime or woe, 
Its hours had pass'd in silent flow. 
The day sets calmly — it hath been 
Mark'd with a strange and awful scene : 
One guilty bosom throbs no more, 
And Otho's pangs and life are o'er. 
And thou, ere yet another sun 
His burning race hath brightly run, 
Released from anguish by thy foes, 
Daughter of Rome ! shalt find repose. 
Yes ! on thy country's lovely sky 
Fix yet once more thy parting eye ! 
A few short hours — and all shall be 
The silent and the past for thee. 
Oh ! thus with tempests of a day 
We struggle, and we pass away, 
Like the wild billows as they sweep, 
Leaving no vestige on the deep ! 
And o'er thy dark and lowly bed 
The sons of future days shall tread, 
The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot, 
By them unknown, by thee forgot. 



THE LAST BANQUET OF ANTONY AND 
CLEOPATRA. 

[" Antony, concluding that he could not die more honour- 
ably than in battle, determined to attack Caesar at the same 
time both by sea and land. The night preceding the execu- 
tion of this design, he ordered his servants at supper to render 
him their best services that evening, and fill the wine round 
plentifully, for the day following they might belong to another 
master, whilst he lay extended on the ground, no longer of 
consequence either to them or to himself. His friends were 
affected, and wept to hear him talk thus ; which when he 
perceived, he encouraged them by assurances that his expec- 
tations of a glorious victory were at least equal to those of an 
honourable death. At the dead of night, when universal 
silence reigned through the city— a silence that was deepened 
by the awful thought of the ensuing day — on a sudden was 
heard the sound of musical instruments, and a noise which 
resembled the exclamations of Bacchanals. This tumultuous 
procession seemed to pass through the whole city, and to go 
out at the gate which led to the enemy's camp. Those who 
reflected on this prodigy concluded that Bacchus, the god 
whom Antony affected to imitate, had then forsaken him." — 
Langhorne's Plutarch.'] 

Thy foes had girt thee with their dread array, 
stately Alexandria ! — yet the sound 

Of mirth and music, at the close of day, 

Swell'd from thy splendid fabrics far around 



O'er camp and wave. Within the royal hall, 
In gay magnificence the feast was spread ; 

And, brightly streaming from the pictured wall, 
A thousand lamps their trembling lustre shed 

O'er many a column, rich with precious dyes, 

That tinge the marble's vein, 'neath Afric's burn- 
ing skies. 

And soft and clear that wavering radiance play'd 

O'er sculptured forms, that round the pillar'd 
scene 
Calm and majestic rose, by art array 'd 

In godlike beauty, awfully serene. 
Oh ! how unlike the troubled guests, reclined 

Round that luxurious board ! — in every face 
Some shadow from the tempest of the mind, 

Rising by fits, the searching eye might trace, 
Though vainly mask'd in smiles which are not 
mirth, [of earth. 

But the proud spirit's veil thrown o'er the woes 

Their brows are bound with wreaths, whose 
transient bloom 

May still survive the wearers — and the rose 
Perchance may scarce be wither' d, when the tomb 

Receives the mighty to its dark repose ! 
The day must dawn on battle, and may set 

In death — but fill the mantling wine-cup high ! 
Despair is fearless, and the Fates e'en yet 

Lend her one hour for parting revelry. 
They who the empire of the world possess'd 
Would taste its j oy s again, ere all exchanged for rest. 

Its joys ! oh, mark yon proud Triumvir's mien, 

And read their annals on that brow of care ! 
Midst pleasure's lotus-bowers his steps have been : 

Earth's brightest pathway led him to despair. 
Trust not the glance that fain would yet inspire 

The buoyant energies of days gone by ; 
There is delusion in its meteor fire, 

And all within is shame, is agony ! 
Away ! the tear in bitterness may flow, [woe. 
But there are smiles which bear a stamp of deeper 

Thy cheek is sunk, and faded as thy fame, 

lost, devoted Roman ! yet thy brow, 
To that ascendant and undying name, 

Pleads with stern loftiness thy right e'en now. 
Thy glory is departed, but hath left 

A lingering light around thee : in decay 
Not less than kingly — though of all bereft, 

Thou seem'st as empire had not pass'd away. 
Supreme in ruin ! teaching hearts elate 
A deep prophetic dread of still mysterious fate ! 



94 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



But thou, enchantress queen ! whose love hath 
made 

His desolation — thou art by his side, 
In all thy sovereignty of charms array' d, 

To meet the storm with still unconquer'd pride. 
Imperial being ! e'en though many a stain 

Of error be upon thee, there is power 
In thy commanding nature, which shall reign 

O'er the stern genius of misfortune's hour ; 
And the dark beauty of thy troubled eye 
E'en now is all illumed with wild sublimity. 

Thine aspect, all impassion'd, wears a light 

Inspiring and inspired — thy cheek a dye, 
Which rises not from joy, but yet is bright 

With the deep glow of feverish energy. 
Proud siren of the Nile ! thy glance is fraught 

With an immortal fire — in every beam 
It darts, there kindles some heroic thought, 

But wild and awful as a sibyl's dream ; 
For thou with death hast communed to attain 
Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from 
the chain. 1 

And the stern courage by such musings lent, 

Daughter of Afric ! o'er thy beauty throws 
The grandeur of a regal spirit, blent 

With all the majesty of mighty woes : 
While he, so fondly, fatally adored, 

Thy fallen Roman, gazes on thee yet, 
Till scarce the soul that once exulting soar'd 

Can deem the day-star of its glory set ; 
Scarce his charm' d heart believes that power can be 
In sovereign fate, o'er him thus fondly loved by 
thee. 

But there is sadness in the eyes around, 

Which mark that ruin'd leader, and survey 
His changeful mien, whence oft the gloom profound 

Strange triumph chases haughtily away. 
" Fill the bright goblet, warrior guests ! " he cries; 

" Quaff, ere we part, the generous nectar deep ! 
Ere sunset gild once more the western skies 

Your chief in cold forgetfulness may sleep ; 
While sounds of revel float o'er shore and sea, 
And the red bowl again is crown' d — but not for me. 

1 Cleopatra made a collection of poisonous drugs, and being 
desirous to know which was least painful in the operation, 
she tried them on the capital convicts. Such poisons as were 
quick in their operation, she found to be attended with violent 
pain and convulsions : such as were milder were slow in their 
effect : she therefore applied herself to the examination of 
venomous creatures ; and at length she found that the bite 
of the asp wa3 the most eligible kind of death, for it brought 
on a gradual kind of lethargy. — See Plutarch. 



" Yet weep not thus. The struggle is not o'er, 

victors of Philippi ! many a field 
Hath yielded palms to us : one effort more ! 

By one stern conflict must our doom be seal'd. 
Forget not, Romans ! o'er a subject world 

How royally your eagle's wing hath spread, 
Though, from his eyrie of dominion hurl'd, 

Now bursts the tempest on his crested head ! 
Yet sovereign still, if banish'd from the sky, 
The sun's indignant bird, he must not droop — but 
die." 

The feast is o'er. 'Tis night, the dead of night — 

Unbroken stillness broods o'er earth and deep ; 
From Egypt's heaven of soft and starry light 

The moon looks cloudless o'er a world of 
sleep. 
For those who wait the morn's awakening beams, 

The battle-signal to decide their doom, 
Have sunk to feverish rest and troubled dreams; — 

Rest that shall soon be calmer in the tomb ; 
Dreams dark and ominous, but there to cease, 
When sleep the lords of war in solitude and peace. 

Wake, slumberers ! wake ! Hark ! heard ye not 
a sound 
Of gathering tumult 1 — Near and nearer still 
Its murmur swells. Above, below, around, 
Bursts a strange chorus forth, confused and 
shrill. 
Wake, Alexandria ! through thy streets the tread 

Of steps unseen is hurrying, and the note 
Of pipe, and lyre, and trumpet, wild and dread, 

Is heard upon the midnight air to float ; 
And voices, clamorous as in frenzied mirth, 
Mingle their thousand tones, which are not of the 
earth. 

These are no mortal sounds — their thrilling strain 

Hath more mysterious power, and birth more 
high ; 
And the deep horror chilling every vein 

Owns them of stern terrific augury. 
Beings of worlds unknown ! ye pass away, 

ye invisible and awful throng ! 
Your echoing footsteps and resounding lay 

To Caesar's camp exulting move along. 
Thy gods forsake thee, Antony ! the sky 
By that dread sign reveals thy doom — " Despair 
and die !" 2 



2 " To-morrow in the battle think on me, 

And fall thy edgeless sword ; despair and die ! ' 

Richard IIL 



ALARIC IN ITALY. 



95 



ALARIC IN ITALY. 

[After describing the conquest of Greece and Italy by the 
German and Scythian hordes united under the command of 
Alaric, the historian of The Decline and Fall of the Roman 
Empire thus proceeds : — " Whether fame, or conquest, or 
riches, were the object of Alaric, he pursued that object with 
an indefatigable ardour, which could neither be quelled by 
adversity nor satiated by success. No sooner had he reached 
the extreme land of Italy, than he was attracted by the 
neighbouring prospect of a fair and peaceful island. Yet even 
the possession of Sicily he considered only as an intermediate 
step to the important expedition which he already meditated 
against the continent of Africa. The straits of Rhegium and 
Messina are twelve miles in length, and, in the narrowest 
passage, about one mile and a half broad ; and the fabulous 
monsters of the deep— the rocks of Scylla and the whirlpool of 
Charybdis — could terrify none but the most timid and unskilful 
mariners : yet, as soon as the first division of the Goths had 
embarked, a sudden tempest arose, which sunk or scattered 
many of the transports. Their courage was daunted by the 
terrors of a new element ; and the whole design was defeated 
by the premature death of Alaric, which fixed, after a short 
illness, the fatal term of his conquests. The ferocious cha- 
racter of the barbarians was displayed in the funeral of a 
hero, whose valour and fortune they celebrated with mourn- 
ful applause. By the labour of a captive multitude, they 
forcibly diverted the course of the Busentinus, a small river 
that washes the walls of Consentia. The royal sepulchre, 
adorned with the splendid spoils and trophies of Rome, was 
constructed in the vacant bed ; the waters were then restored 
to their natural channel, and the secret spot where the re- 
mains of Alaric had been deposited was for ever concealed by 
the inhuman massacre of the prisoners who had been em- 
ployed to execute the work." — Decline and Fall of the Roma7i 
Empire, vol. v. p. 329.] 

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blast 1 
The march of hosts as Alaric pass'd ?- 
His steps have track'd that glorious clime, 
The birth-place of heroic time ; 
But he, in northern deserts bred, 
Spared not the living for the dead," 1 
Nor heard the voice whose pleading cries 
From temple and from tomb arise. 
He pass'd — the light of burning fanes 
Hath been his torch o'er Grecian plains ; 

1 After the taking of Athens by Sylla, " though such 
numbers were put to the sword, there were as many who laid 
violent hands upon themselves in grief for their sinking coun- 
try. "What reduced the best men among them to this despair 
of finding any mercy or moderate terms for Athens, was the 
well-known cruelty of Sylla : yet, partly by the intercession of 
Midias and Calliphon, and the exiles who threw themselves 
at his feet — partly by the entreaties of the senators who 
attended him in that expedition , and being himself satiated 
with blood besides, he was at last prevailed upon to stop his 
hand ; and in compliment to the ancient Athenians, he said, 
' he forgave the many for the sake of the few, the living for 
the dead.' "—Plutarch. 



And woke they not — the brave, the free, 
To guard their own Thermopylae 1 
And left they not their silent dwelling, 
When Scythia's note of war was swelling ? 
No ! where the bold Three Hundred slept, 
Sad freedom battled not — but wept ! 
For nerveless then the Spartan's hand, 
And Thebes could rouse no Sacred Band ; 
Nor one high soul from slumber broke 
When Athens own'd the northern yoke. 

But was there none for thee to dare 
The conflict, scorning to despair 1 ? 
City of the seven proud hills ! 
Whose name e'en yet the spirit thrills, 
As doth a clarion's battle-call — 
Didst thou, too, ancient empress, fall ? 
Did no Camillus from the chain 
Ransom thy Capitol again ? 
Oh, who shall tell the days to be 
No patriot rose to bleed for thee ! 

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blast 1 
The march of hosts as Alaric pass'd 1 
That fearful sound, at midnight deep, 2 
Burst on the Eternal City's sleep : — 
How woke the mighty 1 She whose will 
So long had bid the world be still, 
Her sword a sceptre, and her eye 
Th' ascendant star of destiny ! 
She woke — to view the dread array 
Of Scythians rushing to their prey, 
To hear her streets resound the cries 
Pour'd from a thousand agonies ! 
While the strange light of flames, that gave 
A ruddy glow to Tiber's wave, 
Bursting in that terrific hour 
From fane and palace, dome and tower, 
Reveal'd the throngs, for aid divine, 
Clinging to many a worshipp'd shrine : 
Fierce fitful radiance wildly shed 
O'er spear and sword, with carnage red, 
Shone o'er the suppliant and the flying, 
And kindled pyres for Romans dying. 

Weep, Italy ! alas, that e'er 
Should tears alone thy wrongs declare ! 

2 " At the hour of midnight the Salarian gate was silently 
opened, and the inhabitants were awakened by the tremen- 
dous sound of the Gothic trumpet. Eleven hundred and 
sixty-three years after the foundation of Rome, the imperial 
city, which had subdued and civilised so considerable a por- 
tion of mankind, was delivered to the licentious fury of the 
tribes of Germany and Scythia." — Decline and Fall of the 
Roman Empire, vol. v. p. 311. 



96 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 


The time hath been when thy distress 


And other lands must yet be won, 


Had roused up empires for redress ! 


And other deeds of havoc done. 


Now, her long race of glory run, 


Warriors ! your flowery bondage break ; 


"Without a combat Rome is won, 


Sons of the stormy North, awake ! 


And from her plunder'd temples forth ■ 


The barks are launching from the steep — ■ 


Rush the fierce children of the North, 


Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weep, 2 


To share beneath more genial skies 


And Afric's burning winds afar 


Each joy their own rude clime denies. 


Waft the shrill sounds of Alaric's war. 




Where shall his race of victory close 1 


1 Ye who on bright Campania's shore 


When shall the ravaged earth repose 1 


Bade your fair villas rise of yore, 


But hark ! what wildly mingling cries 


With all their graceful colonnades, 


From Scythia's camp tumultuous rise 1 


And crystal baths, and myrtle shades, 


Why swells dread Alaric's name on air ? 


Along the blue Hesperian deep, 


A sterner conquerer hath been there ! 


Whose glassy waves in sunshine sleep — 


A conqueror — yet his paths are peace, 


Beneath your olive and your vine 


He comes to bring the world's release ; 


Far other inmates now recline ; 


He of the sword that knows no sheath, 


And the tall plane, whose roots ye fed 


The avenger, the deliverer — Death ! 


With rich libations duly shed, 1 




O'er guests, unlike your vanish'd friends, 


Is then that daring spirit fled ] 


Its bowery canopy extends. 


Doth Alaric slumber with the dead ? 


For them the southern heaven is glowing, 


Tamed are the warrior's pride and strength, 


The bright Falernian nectar flowing ; 


And he and earth are calm at length. 


For them the marble halls unfold, 


The land where heaven unclouded shines, 


Where nobler beings dwelt of old, 


Where sleep the sunbeams on the vines ; 


Whose children for barbarian lords 


The land by conquest made his own, 


Touch the sweet lyre's resounding chords, 


Can yield him now — a grave alone. 


Or wreaths of Pa?stan roses twine 


But his — her lord from Alp to sea — 


To crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine. 


No common sepulchre shall be ! 


Yet, though luxurious they repose 


Oh, make his tomb where mortal eye 


Beneath Corinthian porticoes — 


Its buried wealth may ne'er descry ! 


While round them into being start 


Where mortal foot may never tread 


The marvels of triumphant art — 


Above a victor-monarch's bed. 


Oh ! not for them hath Genius given 


Let not his royal dust be hid 


To Parian stone the fire of heaven, 


'Neath star-aspiring pyramid ; 


Enshrining in the forms he wrought 


Nor bid the gather'd mound arise, 


A bright eternity of thought. 


To bear his memory to the skies. 


In vain the natives of the skies 


Years roll away — oblivion claims 


In breathing marble round them rise, 


Her triumph o'er heroic names ; 


And sculptured nymphs of fount or glade 


And hands profane disturb the clay 


People the dark-green laurel shade. 


That once was fired with glory's ray ; 


Cold are the conqueror's heart and eye 


And Avarice, from their secret gloom, 


To visions of divinity ; 


Drags e'en the treasures of the tomb. 


And rude his hand which dares deface 


But thou, leader of the free ! 


The models of immortal grace. 


That general doom, awaits not thee : 




Thou, where no step may e'er intrude, 


Arouse ye from your soft delights ! 


Shalt rest in regal solitude, 


Chieftains ! the war-note's call invites ; 


Till, bursting on thy sleep profound, 




The Awakener's final trumpet sound. 


1 The plane-tree was much cultivated among the Romans, 


Turn ye the waters from their course, 


on account of its extraordinary shade ; and they used to 


Bid Nature yield to human force, 


nourish it with wine instead of water, believing (as Sir W. 




Temple observes) that " this tree loved that liquor as well as 




those who used to drink it under its shade." — See the notes to 


1 Sicily was anciently considered as the favoured and pecu- 


Melmoth's Pliny. 


liar dominion of Ceres. 






THE WIFE OF ASDRUBAL. 



97 



And hollow in the torrent's bed 
A chamber for the mighty dead. 
The work is done — the captive's hand 
Hath well obey'd his lord's command. 
Within that royal tomb are cast 
The richest trophies of the past, 
The wealth of many a stately dome, 
The gold and gems of plunder'd Rome; 
And when the midnight stars are beaming, 
And ocean waves in stillness gleaming, 
Stern in their grief, his warriors bear 
The Chastener of the Nations there ; 
To rest at length from victory's toil, 
Alone, with all an empire's spoil ! 

Then the freed current's rushing wave 
Rolls o'er the secret of the grave ; 
Then streams the martyr'd captives' blood 
To crimson that sepulchral flood, 
Whose conscious tide alone shall keep 
The mystery in its bosom deep. 
Time hath past on since then — and swept 
From earth the urns where heroes slept ; 
Temples of gods and domes of kings 
Are mouldering with forgotten things ; 
Yet not shall ages e'er molest 
The viewless home of Alaric's rest : 
Still rolls, like them, the unfailing river, 
The guardian of his dust for ever. 



THE WIFE OF ASDRUBAL. 

[" This governor, who had hraved death when it was at a 
distance, and protested that the sun should never see him 
survive Carthage — this fierce Asdrubal was so mean-spirited 
as to come alone, and privately throw himself at the con- 
queror's feet. The general, pleased to see his proud rival 
humbled, granted his life, and kept him to grace his triumph. 
The Carthaginians in the citadel no sooner understood that 
their commander had abandoned the place, than they threw 
open the gates, and put the proconsul in possession of Byrsa. 
The Romans had now no enemy to^ontend with but the nine 
hundred deserters, who, being reduced to despair, retired into 
the temple of Esculapius, which was a second citadel within 
the first : there the proconsul attacked them ; and these un- 
happy wretches, finding there was no way to escape, set fire 
to the temple. As the flames spread, they retreated from one 
part to another, till they got to the roof of the building : 
there Asdrubal's wife appeared in her best apparel, as if the 
day of her death had been a day of triumph ; and after hav- 
ing uttered the most bitter imprecations against her husband, 
whom she saw standing below with Emilianus, — ' Base 
coward ! ' said she, ' the mean things thou hast done to save 
thy life shall not avail thee ; thou shalt die this instant, at 
least in thy two children.' Having thus spoken, she drew 
out a dagger, stabbed them both, and while they were yet 



struggling for life, threw them from the top of the temple, and 
leaped down after them into the flames." — Ancient Universal 
History.'] 

The sun sets brightly — but a ruddier glow 
O'er Afric's heaven the flames of Carthage throw. 
Her walls have sunk, and pyramids of fire 
In lurid splendour from her domes aspire; 
Sway'd by the wind, they wave — while glares the 

sky 
As when the desert's red simoom is nigh ; 
The sculptured altar and the pillar'd hall 
Shine out in dreadful brightness ere they fall ; 
Far o'er the seas the light of ruin streams — 
Rock, wave, and isle are crimson'd by its beams ; 
While captive thousands, bound in Roman chains, 
Gaze in mute horror on their burning fanes ; 
And shouts of triumph, echoing far around, 
Swell from the victors' tents with ivy crown'd. 1 
— But mark ! from yon fair temple's loftiest height 
What towering form bursts wildly on the sight, 
All regal in magnificent attire, 
And sternly beauteous in terrific ire 1 
She might be deem'd a Pythia in the hour 
Of dread communion and delirious power ; 
A being more than earthly, in whose eye 
There dwells a strange and fierce ascendency. 
The flames are gathering round — intensely bright, 
Full on her features glares their meteor light ; 
But a wild courage sits triumphant there, 
The stormy grandeur of a proud despair ; 
A daring spirit, in its woes elate, 
Mightier than death, untameable by fate. 
The dark profusion of her locks unbound 
Waves like a warrior's floating plumage round ; 
Flush'd is her cheek, inspired her haughty mien — 
She seems the avenging goddess of the scene. 
Are those Tier infants, that with suppliant cry 
Cling round her shrinking as the flame draws nigh, 
Clasp with their feeble hands her gorgeous vest, 
And fain would rush for shelter to her breast ] 
Is that a mother's glance, where stern disdain, 
And passion, awfully vindictive, reign 1 

Fix'd is her eye on Asdrubal, who stands 
Ignobly safe amidst the conquering bands ; 
On him who left her to that burning tomb, 
Alone to share her children's martyrdom ; 
Who, when his country perish'd, fled the strife, 
And knelt to win the worthless boon of life. 
"Live, traitor ! live !" she cries, "since dear to thee, 
E'en in thy fetters, can existence be ! 



1 It was a Roman custom to adorn the tents of victors 
with ivy. 



98 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Scorn'd and dishonour'd live ! — with blasted name, 
The Roman's triumph not to grace, but shame. 
slave in spirit ! bitter be thy chain 
With tenfold anguish to avenge my pain ! 
Still may the manes of thy children rise 
To chase calm slumber from thy wearied eyes ; 
Still may their voices on the haunted air 
In fearful whispers tell thee to despair, 
Till vain remorse thy wither'd heart consume, 
Scourged by relentless shadows of the tomb ! 
E'en now my sons shall die — and thou, their sire, 
In bondage safe, shalt yet in them expire. 
Think'st thou I love them not 1 — 'T was thine to fly— 
'Tis mine with these to suffer and to die. 
Behold their fate ! — the arms that cannot save 
Have been their cradle, and shall be their grave." 

Bright in her hand the lifted dagger gleams, 
Swift from her children's hearts the life-blood 

streams ; 
With frantic laugh she clasps them to the breast 
Whose woes and passions soon shall be at rest ; 
Lifts one appealing, frenzied glance on high, [eye. 
Then deep midst rolling flames is lost to mortal 



HELIODORUS IN THE TEMPLE. 

[From Maccabees, book ii. chapter 3, verse 21. " Then it 
would have pitied a man to see the falling down of the multi- 
tude of all sorts, and the fear of the high priest, being in such 
an agony. — 22. They then called upon the Almighty Lord to 
keep the things committed of trust safe and sure, for those 
that had committed them. — 23. Nevertheless Heliodorus 
executed that which was decreed. — 24. Now as he was there 
present himself, with his guard about the treasury, the Lord 
of Spirits, and the Prince of all Power, caused a great appari- 
tion, so that all that presumed to come in with him were 
astonished at the power of God, and fainted, and were sore 
afraid. — 25. For there appeared unto them a horse with a 
terrible rider upon him, and adorned with a very fair cover- 
ing ; and he ran fiercely, and smote at Heliodorus with his 
fore-feet, and it seemed that he that sat upon the horse had 
complete harness of gold. — 26. Moreover, two other young 
men appeared before him, notable in strength, excellent in 
beauty, and comely in apparel, who stood by him on either 
side, and scourged him continually, and gave him many 
sore stripes. — 27. And Heliodorus fell suddenly to the 
ground, and was compassed with great darkness; but they 
that were with him took him up, and put him into a litter. 
— 28. Thus him that lately came with great train, and with 
all his guard into the said treasury, they carried out, being 
unable to help himself with his weapons, and manifestly 
they acknowledged the power of God. — 29. For he by the 
hand of God was cast down, and lay speechless without all 
hope of life."] 

A sound of woe in Salem ! mournful cries [pale, 
Rose from her dwellings — youthful cheeks were 



Tears flowing fast from dim and aged eyes, 
And voices mingling in tumultuous wail ; 
Hands raised to heaven in agony of prayer. 
And powerless wrath, and terror, and despair. 

Thy daughters, Judah ! weeping, laid aside 
The regal splendour of their fair array, 

With the rude sackcloth girt their beauty's pride, 
And throng'd the streets in hurrying, wild 
dismay ; 

While knelt thy priests before His awful shrine 

Who made of old renown and empire thine. 

But on the spoiler moves ! The temple's gate, 
The bright, the beautiful, his guards unfold ; 

And all the scene reveals its solemn state, 

Its courts and pillars, rich with sculptured gold ; 

And man with eye unhallow'd views th' abode, 

The sever'd spot, the dwelling-place of God. 

Where art thou, Mighty Presence ! that of yore 
Wert wont between the cherubim to rest, 

Veil'd in a cloud of glory, shadowing o'er 
Thy sanctuary the chosen and the blest ] 

Thou ! that didst make fair Sion's ark thy throne. 

And call the oracle's recess thine own ! 

Angel of God ! that through the Assyrian host, 
Clothed with the darkness of the midnight hour, 

To tame the proud, to hush the invader's boast, 
Didst pass triumphant in avenging power, 

Till burst the day-spring on the silent scene, 

And death alone reveal'd where thou hadst been. 

Wilt thou not wake, Chastener ! in thy might, 
To guard thine ancient and majestic hill, 

Where oft from heaven the full Shechinah's light 
Hath stream'd the house of holiness to fill 1 

Oh ! yet once more defend thy loved domain, 

Eternal One ! Deliverer ! rise again ! 

Fearless of thee, the plunderer undismay'd 
Hastes on, the sacred chambers to explore 

Where the bright treasures of the fane are laid, 
The orphan's portion and the widow's store : 

What recks his heart though age unsuccour'd die, 

And want consume the cheek of infancy ? 

Away, intruders ! — hark ! a mighty sound ! 

Behold, a burst of light ! — away, away ! 
A fearful glory fills the temple round, 

A vision bright in terrible array ! 
And lo ! a steed of no terrestrial frame, 
His path a whirlwind and his breath a flame ! 



NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA. 



99 



His neck is clothed with thunder, 1 and his mane 
Seems waving fire — the kindling of his eye 

Is as a meteor — ardent with disdain 

His glance, his gesture, fierce in majesty ! 

Instinct with light he seems, and form'd to bear 

Some dread archangel through the fields of air. 

But who is he, in panoply of gold, [form, 

Throned on that burning charger 1 ? Bright his 

Yet in its brightness awful to behold, 

And girt with all the terrors of the storm ! 

Lightning is on his helmet's crest — and fear 

Shrinks from the splendour of his brow severe. 

And by his side two radiant warriors stand, 
All arm'd, and kingly in commanding grace — 

Oh ! more than kingly — godlike ! — sternly grand, 
Their port indignant, and each dazzling face 

Beams with the beauty to immortals given, 

Magnificent in all the wrath of heaven. 

Then sinks each gazer's heart — each knee is bow'd 
In trembling awe ; but, as to fields of fight, 

Th' unearthly war-steed, rushing through the 
crowd, 
Bursts on their leader in terrific might ; 

And the stern angels of that dread abode 

Pursue its plunderer with the scourge of God. 

Darkness — thick darkness ! — low on earth he lies, 
Rash Heliodorus — motionless and pale — ■ 

Bloodless his cheek, and o'er his shrouded eyes 
Mists, as of death, suspend their shadowy veil; 

And thus th' oppressor, by his fear-struck train, 

Is borne from that inviolable fane. 

The light returns — the warriors of the sky 
Have pass'd, with all their dreadful pomp, away ; 

Then wakes the timbrel, swells the song on high 
Triumphant as in Judah's elder day ; 

Rejoice, city of the sacred hill ! 

Salem, exult ! thy God is with thee still. 



NIGHT-SCENE IN GENOA. 

["En meme temps que Ies G^nois poursuivoient avec 
ardeur la guerre contrfe Pise, ils (Stoient declines eux-memes 
par une discorde civile. Les consuls de l'annete 1169, pour 



1 " Hast thou given the horse strength ? Hast thou clothed 
his neck with thunder ? "—Job, chap, xxxix. v. 19. 



r^tablir la paix dans leur patrie, au milieu des factions sourdes 
a leur voix et plus puissantes qu'eux, furent obliges d'ourdir 
en quelque sorte une conspiration. Ils commencerent par 
s'assurer secretement des dispositions pacifiques de plusieurs 
des citoyens, qui cependant etoient entraines dans les emeutes 
par leur parente avec les chefs de faction ; puis, se concertant 
avec le v^neVable vieillard, Hugues, leur archeveque, ils 
firent, long-temps avant le lever du soleil, appeler au son des 
cloches les citoyens au parlement : ils se flattoient que la 
surprise et l'alarme de cette convocation inattendue, au 
milieu de l'obscurite - de la nuit, rendroit 1'assemblee et plus 
complete et plus docile. Les citoyens, en accourant au 
parlement general, virent, au milieu de la place publique, le 
vieil archeveque, entoure de son clerge en habit de cere- 
monies, et portant des torches allum^es ; tandis que les 
reliques de Saint Jean Baptiste, le protecteur de Genes, 
Etoient exposees devant lui, et que les citoyens les plus 
respectables portoient a leurs mains des croix suppliantes. 
Des que 1'assemblee fut formee, le vieillard se leva, et de sa 
voix casstie il conjura les chefs de parti, au nom du Dieu de 
paix, au nom du salut de leurs ames, au nom de leur patrie 
et de la liberte, dont leurs discordes entraineroient la ruine, 
de jurer sur 1'eVangile l'oubli de leurs querelles, et la paix a 
venii\ 

" Les herauts, des qu'il eut fini de parler, s'avancerent 
aussitot vers Roland Avogado, le chef de l'une des factions, 
qui etoit present a 1'assemblee, et, secondes par les acclama- 
tions de tout le peuple, et par les prieres de ses parens eux- 
memes, ils le sommerent de se conformer au vceu des consuls 
et de la nation. 

" Roland, a leur approche, dechira ses habits, et, s'asseyant 
par terre en versant des larmes, il appela a haute voix les 
morts qu'il avoit jure* de venger, et qui ne lui permettoient 
pas de pardonner leurs vieilles offenses. Comme on ne 
pouvoit le determiner a s'avancer, les consuls eux-memes, 
l'archeveque et le clerge, s'approcherent de lui, et, renouve- 
lant leurs prieres, ils l'entrainerent enfin, et lui firent jurer 
sur l'evangile l'oubli de ses inimitie's passees. 

" Les chefs du parti contraire, Foulques de Castro, et Ingo 
de Volta, n'etoient pas presens a 1'assemblee, mais le peuple 
et le clerge - se porterent en foule a leurs maisons; ils les 
trouverent deja 6branles par ce qu'ils venoient d'apprendre, 
et, profitant de leur Amotion, ils leur firent jurer une recon- 
ciliation sincere, et donner le baiser de paix aux chefs de 
la faction opposee. Alors les cloches de la ville sonnerent 
en t&noignage d'all^gresse, et l'archeveque de retour sur la 
place publique entonna un Te Deum avec tout le peuple, en 
honneur du Dieu de paix qui avoit sauve leur patrie." — 
Histoire des Republiques Italienncs, vol. ii. pp. 149-150.] 

In Genoa, when the sunset gave 
Its last warm purple to the wave, 
No sound of war, no voice of fear, 
Was heard, announcing danger near : 
Though deadliest foes were there, whose hate 
But slumber'd till its hour of fate, 
Yet calmly, at the twilight's close, 
Sunk the wide city to repose. 

But when deep midnight reign'd around, 
All sudden woke the alarm-bell's sound, 
Full swelling, while the hollow breeze 
Bore its dread summons o'er the seas. 



100 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Then, Genoa, from their slumber started 
Thy sons, the free, the fearless-hearted ; 
Then mingled with th' awakening peal 
Voices, and steps, and clash of steel. 
Arm, warriors ! arm ! for danger calls ; 
Arise to guard your native walls ! 
With breathless haste the gathering throng 
Hurry the echoing streets along ; 
Through darkness rushing to the scene 
Where their bold counsels still convene. 

But there a blaze of torches bright 
Pours its red radiance on the night, 
0*er fane, and dome, and column playing, 
With every fitful night-wind swaying : 
Now floating o'er each tall arcade, 
Around the pillar'd scene display 'd, 
In light relieved by depth of shade : 
And now, with ruddy meteor glare, 
Full streaming on the silvery hair 
And the bright cross of him who stands 
Eearing that sign with suppliant hands, 
Girt with his consecrated train, 
The hallow'd servants of the fane. 
Of life's past woes the fading trace 
Hath given that aged patriarch's face 
Expression holy, deep, resign'd, 
The calm sublimity of mind. 
Years o'er his snowy head have pass'd, 
And left him of his race the last, 
Alone on earth — yet still his mien 
Is bright with majesty serene; 
And those high hopes, whose guiding star 
Shines from th' eternal .worlds afar, 
Have with that light illumed his eye 
Whose fount is immortality, 
And o'er his features pour'd a ray 
Of glory, not to pass away. 
He seems a being who hath known 
Communion with his God alone, 
On earth by nought but pity's tie 
Detain'd a moment from on high ! 
One to sublimer worlds allied, 
One from all passion purified, 
E'en now half mingled with the sky, 
And all prepared — oh ! not to die — 
But, like the prophet, to aspire, 
In heaven's triumphal car of fire. 
He speaks — and from the throngs around 
Is heard not e'en a whisper'd sound ; 
Awe-struck each heart, and fix'd each glance, 
They stand as in a spell-bound trance : 
He speaks — oh ! who can hear nor own 
The might of each prevailing tone ? 



" Chieftains and warriors ! ye, so long 
Aroused to strife by mutual wrong, 
Whose fierce and far-transmitted hate 
Hath made your country desolate ; 
Now by the love ye bear her name, 
By that pure spark of holy flame 
On freedom's altar brightly burning, 
But, once extinguished, ne'er returning ; 
By all your hopes of bliss to come 
When burst the bondage of the tomb ; 
By Him, the God who bade us live 
To aid each other, and forgive — 
I call upon ye to resign 
Your discords at your country's shrine, 
Each ancient feud in peace atone, 
Wield your keen swords for her alone, 
And swear upon the cross, to cast 
Oblivion's mantle o'er the past ! " 

No voice replies. The holy bands 
Advance to where yon chieftain stands, 
With folded arms, and brow of gloom 
O'ershadow'd by his floating plume. 
To him they lift the cross — in vain : 
He turns — oh ! say not with disdain, 
But with a mien of haughty grief, 
That seeks not e'en from heaven relief. 
He rends his robes — he sternly speaks — 
Yet tears are on the warrior's cheeks : — 
" Father ! not thus the wounds may close 
Inflicted by eternal foes. 
Deem'st thou thy mandate can efface 
The dread volcano's burning trace 1 
Or bid the earthquake's ravaged scene 
Be smiling as it once hath been 1 
No ! for the deeds the sword hath done 
Forgiveness is not lightly won ; 
The words by hatred spoke may not 
Be as a summer breeze forgot ! 
'Tis vain — we deem the war-feud's rage 
A portion of our heritage. 
Leaders, now slumbering with their fame, 
Bequeath'd us that undying flame ; 
Hearts that have long been still and cold 
Yet rule us from their silent mould ; 
And voices, heard on earth no more, 
Speak to our spirits as of yore. 
Talk not of mercy ! — blood alone 
The stain of bloodshed may atone ; 
Nought else can pay that mighty debt, 
The dead forbid us to forget." 

He pauses. From the patriarch's brow 
There beams more lofty grandeur now ; 



THE TROUBADOUR AND RICHARD CQSUR DE LION". 



101 



His reverend form, Ms aged hand, 
Assume a gesture of command ; 
His voice is awful, and his eye 
Fill'd with prophetic majesty. 

" The dead ! — and deem'st thou they retain 
Aught of terrestrial passion's stain ? 
Of guilt incurr'd in days gone by, 
Aught but the fearful penalty ] 
And say'st thou, mortal ! blood alone 
For deeds of slaughter may atone 1 
There hath been blood — by Him 'twas shed 
To expiate every crime who bled ; 
Th' absolving God, who died to save, 
And rose in victory from the grave ! 
And by that stainless offering given 
Alike for all on earth to heaven ; 
By that inevitable hour 
When death shall vanquish pride and power, 
And each departing passion's force 
Concentrate all in late remorse ; 
And by the day when doom shall be 
Pass'd on earth's millions, and on thee — 
The doom that shall not be repeal'd, 
Once utter'd, and for ever seal'd — 
I summon thee, child of clay ! 
To cast thy darker thoughts away, 
And meet thy foes in peace and love, 
As thou wouldst join the blest above." 

Still as he speaks, unwonted feeling 
Is o'er the chieftain's bosom stealing. 
Oh, not in vain the pleading cries 
Of anxious thousands round him rise ! 
He yields : devotion's mingled sense 
Of faith, and fear, and penitence, 
Pervading all his soul, he bows 
To offer on the cross his vows, 
And that best incense to the skies, 
Each evil passion's sacrifice. 

Then tears from warriors' eyes were flowing, 
High hearts with soft emotions glowing ; 
Stern foes as long-loved brothers greeting, 
And ardent throngs in transport meeting ; 
And eager footsteps forward pressing, 
And accents loud in joyous blessing; 
And when their first wild tumults cease, 
A thousand voices echo " Peace ! " 

Twilight's dim mist hath roll'd away, 
And the rich Orient burns with day ; 
Then as to greet the sunbeam's birth, 
Rises the choral hymn of earth — 



Th' exulting strain through Genoa swelling, 
Of peace and holy rapture telling. 

Far float the sounds o'er vale and steep, 
The seaman hears them on the deep — 
So mellow'd by the gale, they seem 
As the wild music of a dream. 
But not on mortal ear alone 
Peals the triumphant anthem's tone ; 
For beings of a purer sphere 
Bend with celestial joy, to hear. 



THE TROUBADOUR AND RICHARD CffiUR 
DE LION. 

[" Not only the place of Richard's confinement," (when 
thrown into prison by the Duke of Austria,) "if we believe 
the literary history of the times, but even the circumstance 
of his captivity, was carefully concealed by his vindictive 
enemies ; and both might have remained unknown but for 
the grateful attachment of a Provencal bard, or minstrel, 
named Blondel, who had shared that prince's friendship and 
tasted his bounty. Having travelled over all the European 
continent to learn the destiny of his beloved patron, Blondel 
accidentally got intelligence of a certain castle in Germany, 
where a prisoner of distinction was confined, and guarded 
with great vigilance. Persuaded by a secret impulse that this 
prisoner was the King of England, the minstrel repaired to 
the place ; but the gates of the castle were shut against him, 
and he could obtain no information relative to the name or 
quality of the unhappy person it secured. In this extremity, 
he bethought himself of an expedient for making the desired 
discovery. He chanted, with a loud voice, some verses of a 
song which had been composed partly by himself, partly by 
Richard ; and to his unspeakable joy, on making a pause, he 
heard it re-echoed and continued by the royal captive. — (Hist. 
Troubadours.) To this discovery the English monarch is 
said to have eventually owed his release." — See Russell's 
Modern Europe, vol. i. p. 369. 

The Troubadour o'er many a plain 

Hath roam'd unwearied, but in vain. 

O'er many a rugged mountain- scene 

And forest wild his track hath been : 

Beneath Calabria's glowing sky 

He hath sung the songs of chivalry ; 

His voice hath swell'd on the Alpine breeze, 

And rung through the snowy Pyrenees ; 

From Ebro's banks to Danube's wave, 

He hath sought his prince, the loved, the brave ; 

And yet, if still on earth thou art, 

Monarch of the lion-heart ! 

The faithful spirit, which distress 

But heightens to devotedness, 

By toil and trial vanquish'd not, 

Shall guide thy minstrel to the spot. 



102 



TALES AND HISTOEIC SCENES. 



He hath reach'd a mountain hung with vine, 
And woods that wave o'er the lovely Rhine : 
The feudal towers that crest its height 
Frown in unconquerable might ; 
Dark is their aspect of sullen state — 
No helmet hangs o'er the massy gate * 
To bid the wearied pilgrim rest, 
At the chieftain's board a welcome guest ; 
Vainly rich evening's parting smile 
Would chase the gloom of the haughty pile, 
That midst bright sunshine lowers on high, 
Like a thunder-cloud in a summer sky. 

Not these the halls where a child of song 
Awhile may speed the hours along ; 
Their echoes should repeat alone 
The tyrant's mandate, the prisoner's moan, 
Or the wild huntsman's bugle-blast, 
When his phantom train are hurrying past. 3 
The weary minstrel paused — his eye 
Roved o'er the scene despondingly : 
Within the length'ning shadow, cast 
By the fortress-towers and ramparts vast, 
Lingering he gazed. The rocks around 
Sublime in savage grandeur frown'd ; 
Proud guardians of the regal flood, 
In giant strength the mountains stood — 
By torrents cleft, by tempests riven, 
Yet mingling still with the calm blue heaven. 
Their peaks were bright with a sunny glow, 
But the Rhine all shadowy roll'd below ; 
In purple tints the vineyards smiled, 
But the woods beyond waved dark and wild ; 
Nor pastoral pipe nor convent's bell 
Was heard on the sighing breeze to swell ; 
But all was lonely, silent, rude, 
A stern, yet glorious solitude. 

But hark ! that solemn stillness breaking, 
The Troubadour's wild song is waking. 



1 It was a custom in feudal times to hang out a helmet on 
a castle, as a token that strangers were invited to enter, and 
partake of hospitality. So in the romance of " Perceforest," 
" ils fasoient mettre au plus hault de leur hostel un heaulme, 
en signe que tous les gentils hommes et gentilles femmes en- 
trassent hardiment en leur hostel comme en leur propre." 

2 Popular tradition has made several mountains in Ger- 
many the haunt of the wild Jager, or supernatural hunts- 
man. The superstitious tales relating to the Unterburg are 
recorded in Eustace's Classical Tour ,• and it is still believed 
in the romantic district of the Odenwald, that the knight of 
Rodenstein, issuing from his ruined castle, announces the 
approach of war by traversing the air with a noisy armament 
to the opposite castle oi Schnellerts. — See the " Manuel pour 
les Voyageurs sur It Rhin," and " Autumn on the Rhine." 



Full oft that song in days gone by 
Hath cheer'd the sons of chivalry : 
It hath swell'd o'er Judah's mountains lone, 
Hermon ! thy echoes have learn'd its tone ; 
On the Great Plain 3 its notes have rung, 
The leagued Crusaders' tents among ; 
'Twas loved by the Lion-heart, who won 
The palm in the field of Ascalon ; 
And now afar o'er the rocks of Rhine 
Peals the bold strain of Palestine. 

THE TROUBADOUR'S SONG. 

" Thine hour is come, and the stake is set," 
The Soldan cried to the captive knight, 

"And the sons of the Prophet in throngs are met 
To gaze on the fearful sight. 

" But be our faith by thy lips profess'd, 

The faith of Mecca's shrine, 
Cast down the red-cross that marks thy vest, 

And life shall yet be thine." 

" I have seen the flow of my bosom's blood, 

And gazed with undaunted eye ; 
I have borne the bright cross through fire and flood, 

And think' st thou I fear to die ] 

"I have stood where thousands, by Salem's towers, 

Have fall'n for the name Divine ; 
And the faith that cheer'd their closing hours 

Shall be the light of mine." 

" Thus wilt thou die in the pride of health, 
And the glow of youth's fresh bloom ? 

Thou art offer'd life, and pomp, and wealth, 
Or torture and the tomb." 

"I have been where the crown of thorns was twined 

For a dying Saviour's brow ; 
He spurn'd the treasures that lure mankind, 

And I reject them now !" 

3 The Plain of Esdraelon, called by way of eminence the 
" Great Plain ;" in Scripture, and elsewhere, the " field of 
Megiddo," the " Galila?an Plain." This plain, the most fer- 
tile part of all the land of Canaan, has been the scene of many 
a memorable contest in the first ages of Jewish history, as 
well as during the Roman empire, the Crusades, and even 
in later times. It has been a chosen place for encampment 
in every contest carried on in this country, from the days of 
Nabuchodonosor, King of the Assyrians, until the disastrous 
march of Buonaparte from Egypt into Syria. Warriors out 
of " every nation which is under heaven " have pitched their 
tents upon the Plain of Esdraelon, and have beheld the va- 
rious banners of their nations wet with the dews of Hermon 
and Tliabor. — Br Clarke's Travels. 



THE DEATH OF CONRADIN. 



103 



" Art thou the son of a noble line 
In a land that is fair and blest 1 

And doth not thy spirit, proud captive ! 
Again on its shores to rest 1 



pme 



" Thine own is the choice to hail once more 

The soil of thy father's birth, 
Or to sleep, when thy lingering pangs are o'er, 

Forgotten in foreign earth." 

" Oh ! fair are the vine-clad hills that rise 

In the country of my love ; 
But yet, though cloudless my native skies, 

There's a brighter clime above ! " 

The bard hath paused — for another tone 
Blends with the music of his own ; 
And his heart beats high with hope again, 
As a well-known voice prolongs the strain. 

"Are there none within thy father's hall, 

Far o'er the wide blue main, 
Young Christian ! left to deplore thy fall, 

With sorrow deep and vain]" 

" There are hearts that still, through all the past, 

Unchanging have loved me well ; 
There are eyes whose tears were streaming fast 

When I bade my home farewell. 

" Better they wept o'er the warrior's bier 

Than th' apostate's living stain ; 
There's a land where those who loved when here 

Shall meet to love again." 

'Tis he ! thy prince — long sought, long lost, 
The leader of the red-cross host ! 
'Tis he ! — to none thy joy betray, 
Young Troubadour ! away, away ! 
Away to the island of the brave, 
The gem on the bosom of the wave ; l 
Arouse the sons of the noble soil 
To win their Lion from the toil. 
And free the wassail-cup shall flow, 
Bright in each hall the hearth shall glow ; 
The festal board shall be richly crown'd, 
While knights and chieftains revel round, 
And a thousand harps with joy shall ring, 
When merry England hails her king. 

1 " This precious stone set in the sea."— Richard II. 



THE DEATH OF CONRADIN. 

[• ' La de'faite de Conradin ne devoit mettre une terme ni 
a ses malheurs, ni aux vengeances du roi (Charles d' Anjou.) 
L'amour du peuple pour Phe>itier legitime du trone avoit 
delate d'une maniere effrayante ; il pouvoit causer de nou- 
velles revolutions, si Conradin demeuroit en vie ; et Charles, 
revetant sa defiance et sa cruaute 1 des formes de la justice, 
resolut de faire p£rir sur l'&hafaud le dernier rejeton de la 
Maison de Souabe, l'unique esperance de son parti. Un 
seul juge Provencal et sujet de Charles, dont les historiens 
n'ont pas voulu conserver le nom, osa voter pour la mort, 
d'autres se renfermerent dans un timide et coupable silence ; 
et Charles, sur l'autorite' de ce seul juge, fit prononcer, par 
Robert de Bari, protonotaire du royaume, la sentence de 
mort contre Conradin et tous ses compagnons. Cette sen- 
tence fut communiquee a Conradin, comme il jouoit aux 
tehees ; on lui laissa peu de temps pour se preparer a 
son execution, et le 26 d'Octobre il fut conduit, avec tous 
ses amis, sur la Place du Marche" de Naples, le long du 
rivage de la mer. Charles etoit present, avec toute sa cour, 
et une foule immense entouroit le roi vainqueur et le roi 
condamne\ Conradin e*toit entre les mains des bourreaux ; 
il detacha lui-meme son manteau, et s'etant mis agenoux 
pour prier, il se releva en s'^criant : ' Oh, ma mere, quelle 
profonde douleur te causera la nouvelle qu'on va te porter 
de moi ! ' Puis il tourna les yeux sur la foule qui l'entouroit ; 
il vit les larmes, il entendit les sanglots de son peuple ; alors, 
d^tachant son gant, il jeta au milieu de ses sujets ce gage 
d'un combat de vengeance, et rendit sa tete au bourreau. 
Apres lui, sur le meme ^chafaud, Charles fit trancher la 
tete au Due d'Autriche, aux Comtes Gualferano et Barto- 
lommeo Lancia, et aux Comtes Gerard et Galvano Dono- 
ratico de Pise. Par un rafinement de cruaute, Charles voulut 
que le premier, fils du second, prec^dat son pere, et mourut 
entre ses bras. Les cadavres, d'apres ses ordres, furent 
exclus d'une terre sainte, et inhumes sans pompe sur le rivage 
de la mer. Charles II. cependant fit dans la suite batir sur 
le meme lieu une iglise de Carmelites, comme pour appaiser 
ces ombres irrit^es." — Sismondi's Rc'publiques ItaliennesJ] 

No cloud to dim the splendour of the day 
Which breaks o'er Naples and her lovely bay, 
And lights that brilliant sea and magic shore 
With every tint that charm'd the great of yore — ■ 
Th' imperial ones of earth, who proudly bade 
Their marble domes e'en oceans realm invade. 
That race is gone — but glorious Nature here 
Maintains unchanged her own sublime career, 
And bids these regions of the sun display 
Bright hues, surviving empires pass'd away. 

The beam of heaven expands — its kindling smile 
Reveals each charm of many a fairy isle, 
Whose image floats, in softer colouring drest, 
With all its rocks and vines, on ocean's breast. 
Misenum's cape hath caught the vivid ray, 
On Roman streamers there no more to play ; 
Still, as of old, unalterably bright, 
Lovely it sleeps on Posilippo's height, 



104 



TALES AND HISTOEIC SCENES. 



With all Italia's sunshine to illume 
The ilex canopy of Virgil's tomb. 
Campania's plains rejoice in light, and spread 
Their gay luxuriance o'er the mighty dead ; 
Fair glittering to thine own transparent skies, 
Thy palaces, exulting Naples ! rise ; 
While far on high Vesuvius rears his peak, 
Furrow'd and dark with many a lava streak. 

Oh, ye bright shores of Circe and the Muse ! 
Kich with all nature's and all fiction's hues, 
Who shall explore your regions, and declare 
The poet err'd to paint Elysium there ] 
Call up his spirit, wanderer ! bid him guide 
Thy steps those syren-haunted seas beside ; 
And all the scene a lovelier light shall wear, 
And spells more potent shall pervade the air. 
What though his dust be scatter' d, and his urn 
Long from its sanctuary of slumber torn, 1 
Still dwell the beings of his verse around, 
Hovering in beauty o'er th' enchanted ground ; 
His lays are murmur'd in each breeze that roves 
Soft o'er the sunny waves and orange-groves ; 
His memory's charm is spread o'er shore and sea, 
The soul, the genius of Parthenope ; 
Shedding o'er myrtle shade and vine-clad hill 
The purple radiance of Elysium still. 

Yet that fair soil and calm resplendent sky 
Have witness'd many a dark reality. 
Oft o'er those bright blue seas the gale hath borne 
The sighs of exiles never to return. 2 
There with the whisper of Campania's gale 
Hath mingled oft affection's funeral wail, 
Mourning for buried heroes — while to her 
That glowing land was but their sepulchre. 3 
And there, of old, the dread mysterious moan 
Swell' d from strange voices of no mortal tone ; 
And that wild trumpet, whose unearthly note 
Was heard at midnight o'er the hills to float 



1 The urn supposed to have contained the ashes of Virgil 
has long since been lost. 

2 Many Romans of exalted rank were formerly banished to 
some of the small islands in the Mediterranean, on the coast 
of Italy. Julia, the daughter of Augustus, was confined many 
years in the isle of Pandataria, ar.d her daughter Agrippina, 
the widow of Germanicus, afterwards died in exile on the 
same desolate spot. 

3 " Quelques souvenirs du coeur, quelques noms de femmes, 
r^clament aussi vos pleurs. C'est a Misene, dans le lieu 
meme ou nous sommes, que la veuve de Pomp^e Cornelie 
conserva jusqu'a la mort son noble deuil. Agrippine pleura 
long-temps Germanicus sur ces bords : un jour, le meme 
assassin qui lui ravit son epoux la trouva digne de le suivre. 
L'ile de Nisida fut temoin des adieux de Brutus et de Porcie." 
— Madame de Stael, Corinne. 



Around the spot where Agrippina died, 
Denouncing vengeance on the matricide. 4 

Pass'd are those ages — yet another crime, 
Another woe, must stahi th' Elysian clime. 
There stands a scaffold on the sunny shore — 
It must be crimson'd ere the day is o'er ! 
There is a throne in regal pomp array' d, — 
A scene of death from thence must be survey'd. 
Mark'd'ye the rushing throngs 1 — each mien is pale, 
Each hurried glance reveals a fearful tale : 
But the deep workings of th' indignant breast, 
Wrath, hatred, pity, must be all suppress'd ; 
The burning tear awhile must check its course, 
Th' avenging thought concentrate all its force ; 
For tyranny is near, and will not brook 
Aught but submission in each guarded look. 

Girt with his fierce Provencals, and with mien 
Austere in triumph, gazing on the scene, 5 
And in his eye a keen suspicious glance 
Of jealous pride and restless vigilance, 
Behold the conqueror ! Vainly in his face 
Of gentler feeling hope would seek a trace ; 
Cold, proud, severe, the spirit which hath lent 
Its haughty stamp to each dark lineament : 
And pleading mercy, in the sternness there, 
May read at once her sentence — to despair ! 

But thou, fair boy ! the beautiful, the brave, 
Thus passing from the dungeon to the grave, 
While all is yet around thee which can give 
A charm to earth, and make it bliss to live ; 
Thou on whose form hath dwelt a mother's eye, 
Till the deep love that not with thee shall die 
Hath grown too full for utterance — Can it be ! 
And is this pomp of death prepared for thee ? 

4 The sight of that coast, and those shores where the crime 
had been perpetrated, filled Nero with continual horrors ; 
besides, there were some who imagined they heard horrid 
shrieks and cries from Agrippina's tomb, and a mournful 
sound of trumpets from the neighbouring cliffs and hills. 
Nero, therefore, flying from such tragical scenes, withdrew 
to Naples — See Ancient Universal History. 

s " Ce Charles," dit Giovanni Villani," fut sage et prudent 
dans les conseils, preux dans les armes, apre et forte redoute 
de tous les rois du monde, magnanime et de hautes penstes 
qui l'^galoient aux plus grandes entreprises; indbranlable dans 
l'adversitd, ferme et fideledans toutes ses promesses, parlant 
peu et agissant beaucoup, ni riant presque jamais, decent 
comme un religieux, ze'le catholique, apre a rendre justice, 
feVoce dans ses regards. Sa taille e'toit grande et nerveuse, 
sa couleur olivatre, son nez fort grand. II paroissoit plus fait 
qu'aucun autre chevalier pour la majeste royale. II ne dor- 
moit presque point. Jamais il ne prit de plaisir aux mimes, 
aux troubadours, et aux gens de cour." — Sismondi, Repub- 
liqucs Italicnnes, vol. iii. 



THE DEATH OF CONRADIN 



105 



Young, royal Conradin! who shouldst have known 
Of life as yet the sunny smile alone ! 
Oh ! who can view thee, in the pride and bloom 
Of youth, array 'd so richly for the tomb, 
Nor feel, deep swelling in his inmost soul, 
Emotions tyranny may ne'er control ? 
Bright victim ! to Ambition's altar led, [shed, 
Crown'd with all flowers that heaven on earth can 
Who, from th' oppressor towering in his pride, 
May hope for mercy — if to thee denied ? 
There is dead silence on the breathless throng, 
Dead silence all the peopled shore along, 
As on the captive moves — the only sound. 
To break that calm so fearfully profound, 
The low, sweet murmur of the rippling wave, 
Soft as it glides, the smiling shore to lave ; 
While on that shore, his own fair heritage, 
The youthful martyr to a tyrant's rage 
Is passing to his fate : the eyes are dim [him. 
Which gaze, through tears that dare not flow, on 
He mounts the scaffold — doth his footstep fail ? 
Doth his lip quiver 1 ? doth his cheek turn pale ] 
Oh ! it may be forgiven him if a thought 
Cling to that world, for him with beauty fraught, 
To all the hopes that promised glory's meed, 
And all th' affections that with him shall bleed ! 
If, in his life's young dayspring, while the rose 
Of boyhood on his cheek yet freshly glows, 
One human fear convulse his parting breath, 
And shrink from all the bitterness of death ! 

But no ! the spirit of his royal race 
Sits brightly on his brow : that youthful face 
Beams with heroic beauty, and his eye 
Is eloquent with injured majesty. 
He kneels — but not to man ; his heart shall own 
Such deep submission to his God alone ! 
And who can tell with what sustaining power 
That God may visit him in fate's dread hour ? 
How the still voice, which answers every moan, 
May speak of hope — when hope on earth is gone! 

That solemn pause is o'er — the youth hath given 
One glance of parting love to earth and heaven : 
The sun rejoices in th' unclouded sky, 
Life all around him glows — and he must die? 
Yet midst his people, undismay'd, he throws 
The gage of vengeance for a thousand woes ; 
Vengeance that, like their own volcano's fire, 
May sleep suppress'd a while — but not expire. 
One softer image rises o'er his breast, 
One fond regret, and all shall be at rest ! 
" Alas, for thee, my mother ! who shall bear 
To thy sad heart the tidings of despair, 



When thy lost child is gone?" — that thought can 

thrill 
His soul with pangs one moment more shall still. 
The lifted axe is glittering in the sun — 
It falls — the race of Conradin is run ! 
Yet, from the blood which flows that shore to stain, 
A voice shall cry to heaven — and not in vain ! 
Gaze thou, triumphant from thy gorgeous throne, 
In proud supremacy of guilt alone, 
Charles of Anjou ! — but that dread voice shall be 
A fearful summoner e'en yet to thee ! 

The scene of death is closed — the throngs depart, 
A deep stern lesson graved on every heart. 
No pomp, no funeral rites, no streaming eyes, 
High-minded boy ! may grace thine obsequies. 
vainly royal and beloved ! thy grave, 
Unsanctified, is bathed by ocean's wave ; 
Mark'd by no stone, a rude, neglected spot, 
Unhonour'd, unadorn'd — but unforgot; 
For thy deep wrongs in tameless hearts shall live, 
Now mutely suffering — never to forgive ! 

The sunset fades from purple heavens away — 
A bark hath anchor'd in the unruffled bay : 
Thence on the beach descends a female form, 1 
Her mien with hope and tearful transport warm ; 
But life hath left sad traces on her cheek, 
And her soft eyes a chasten'd heart bespeak, 
Inured to woes — yet what were all the past ! 
She sank not feebly 'neath affliction's blast, [tell 
While one bright hope remain'd— who now shall 
Th' uncrown'd, the widow'd, how her loved one 

fell? 
To clasp her child, to ransom and to save, 
The mother came — and she hath found his grave! 
And by that grave, transfix'd in speechless grief, 
Whose deathlike trance denies a tear's relief, 
Awhile she kneels — till roused at length to know, 
To feel the might, the fulness of her woe, 
On the still air a voice of anguish wild, 
A mother's cry is heard—" My Conradin ! my 

child!" 



1 "The Carmine (at Naples) calls to mind the bloody 
catastrophe of those royal youths, Conradin and Frederick of 
Austria, butchered before its door. Whenever I traversed 
that square, my heart yearned at the idea of their premature 
fate, and at the deep distress of Conradin's mother, who, 
landing on the beach with her son's ransom, found only a 
lifeless trunk to redeem from the fangs of his barbarous con- 
queror." — Swinburne's Travels in the Two Sicilies. 

EXTRACTS FROM CONTEMPORARY REVIEWS. 

Quarterly Review. — " ' Tales and Historic Scenes' is a collec- 



106 



THE SCEPTIC. 



tion, as the title imports, of narrative poems. Perhaps it was 
not on consideration that Mrs Hemans passed from a poem 
of picture-drawing and reflection to the writing of tales ; but 
if we were to prescribe to a young poet his course of practice, 
this would certainly be our advice. The luxuriance of a young 
fancy delights in description, and the quickness and inexpe- 
rience of the same age, in passing judgments, — in the one 
richness, in the other antithesis and effect, are too often more 
sought after than truth : the poem is written rapidly, and 
correctness but little attended to. But in narration more 
care must be taken : if the tale be fictitious, the conception 
and sustainment of the characters, the disposition of the 
facts, the relief of the soberer parts by description, reflection, 
or dialogue, form so many useful studies for a growing artist. 
If the tale be borrowed from history, a more delicate task is 
added to those just mentioned, in determining how far it may 
be necessary, or safe, to interweave the ornaments of fiction 
with the groundwork of truth, and in skilfully performing 
that difficult task. In both cases, the mind is compelled to 
make a more sustained effort, and acquires thereby greater 
vigour, and a more practical readiness in the detail of the art. 
" The principal poem in this volume is The Abencerrage. 
It commemorates the capture of Granada by Ferdinand and 
Isabella, and attributes it, in great measure, to the revenge 
of Hamet, chief of the Abencerrages, who had been induced 
to turn his arms against his countrymen the Moors, in order 
to procure the ruin of their king, the murderer of his father 
and brothers. During the siege he makes his way by night 
to the bower of Zayda, his beloved, the daughter of a rival 
and hated family. Her character is very finely drawn ; and 
she repels with firmness all the solicitations and prayers of 
the traitor to his country. The following lines form part of 
their dialogue, — they are spirited and pathetic, but perfectly 
free from exaggeration, — . 

' Oh ! wert thou still what once I fondly deem'd,' " etc. 

Edinburgh Monthly Review. — "The more we become ac- 
quainted with Mrs Hemans as a poet, the more we are de- 
lighted with her productions, and astonished by her powers. 
She will, she must, take her place among eminent poets. If 



she has a rival of her own sex, it is Joanna Baillie ; but, even 
compared with the living masters of the lyre, she is entitled 
to a very high distinction. .... 

" Mrs Hemans manifests, in her own fine imagination, a 
fund which is less supported by loan than the wealth of some 
very eminent poets whom we could name. We think it im- 
possible that she can write by mere rule, more than on credit. 
If she did, her poetry would lose all its charms. It is by 
inspiration — as it is poetically called — by a fine tact of sym- 
pathy, a vivacity and fertility of imagination, that she pours 
forth her enchanting song and ' builds her lofty rhyme.' 
The judicious propriety wherewith she bestows on each 
element of her composition its due share of fancy and of 
feeling, much increases our respect for her powers. With 
an exquisite airiness and spirit, with an imagery which quite 
sparldes, are touched her lighter delineations; with a rich 
and glowing pencil, her descriptions of visible nature: a 
sublime eloquence is the charm of her sentiments of mag- 
nanimity ; while she melts into tenderness with a grace in 
which she has few equals. 

" It appears to us that Mrs Hemans has yielded her own 
to the public taste in conveying her poetry in the vehicle of 
tales." 

Constable's Magazine. — " The Abencerrage is a romance, 
the scene of which is appropriately laid in a most romantic 
period, and in the country of all others in which the spirit of 
romance was most powerful, and lingered longest — in the 
kingdom of Granada, where the power of the Moors was first 

established, and had the greatest continuance 

The leading events of the narrative are strictly historical, and 
with these the fate and sufferings of the unfortunate lovers 
are very naturally interwoven. The beauty of the descrip- 
tions here is exquisite Choice is bewildered 

among the many fine passages we are tempted to extract from 
The Abencerrage. 

"If any reader considers our strictures tedious, and our 
extracts profuse, our best apology is, that the luxury of doing 
justice to so much genuine talent, adorning so much private 
worth, does not often occur to tempt us to an excess of this 
nature." 



THE SCEPTIC. 



" Leur raison, qu'ils prenncnt pour guide, ne prenente a leur esprit que des conjectures et des embarras; les absurdites 
ou lis tombent en niant la Religion deviennent plus insoutenables que les verites dont la hauteur les etonne ; et pour ne 
vouloir pas croire des mysteres incomprehensibles, ils suivent l'une apres l'autre d'incomprehensibles erreurs." — Bossuet. 



"When the young Eagle, with exulting eye, 
Has learn'd to dare the splendour of the sky, 

1 " The poem of The Sceptic, published in 1820, was one 
in which her revered friend* took a peculiar interest. It 
had been her original wish to dedicate it to him, but he 
declined the tribute, thinking it might be more advantageous 
to her to pay this compliment to Mr Gifford, with whom she 
was at that time in frequent correspondence, and who entered 
* Dr Luxmoore, Bishop of St Asaph. 



And leave the Alps beneath him in his course, 
To bathe his crest in morn's empyreal source ; 

very warmly into her literary undertakings, discussing them 
with the kindness of an old friend, and desiring her to com- 
mand frankly whatever assistance his advice or experience 
could afford. Mrs Hemans, in the first instance, consented 
to adopt the suggestion regarding the altered dedication ; but 
was afterwards deterred from putting it into execution, by a 
fear that it might be construed into a manoeuvre to propitiate 



THE SCEPTIC. 



107 



Will his free wing, from that majestic height, 
Descend to follow some wild meteor's light, 
Which far below, with evanescent fire, 
Shines to delude and dazzles to expire 1 
No ! still through clouds he wins his upward way, 
And proudly claims his heritage of day ! 
— And shall the spirit, on whose ardent gaze 
The dayspring from on high hath pour'd its blaze, 
Turn from that pure effulgence to the beam 
Of earth-born light that sheds a treacherous gleam, 
Luring the wanderer from the star of faith 
To the deep valley of the shades of death ? 
What bright exchange, what treasure shall be given, 
For the high birthright of its hope in heaven ? 
If lost the gem which empires could not buy, 
What yet remains ? — a dark eternity ! 

Is earth still Eden ? — might a seraph guest 
Still midst its chosen bowers delighted rest 1 
Is all so cloudless and so calm below, 
We seek no fairer scenes than life can show ? 
That the cold Sceptic, in his pride elate, 
Rejects the promise of a brighter state, 
And leaves the rock no tempest shall displace, 
To rear his dwelling on the quicksands base ? 

Votary of doubt ! then join the festal throng, 
Bask in the sunbeam, listen to the song, 
Spread the rich board, and fill the wine-cup high, 
And bind the wreath ere yet the roses die ! 

the good graces of the Quarterly Review; and from the 
slightest approach to any such mode of propitiation, her 
sensitive nature recoiled with almost fastidious delicacy." — • 
Memoir, p. 31. 

" One of the first notices of The Sceptic appeared in the 
Edinburgh Monthly Magazine; and there is something in 
its tone so far more valuable than ordinary praise, and at the 
same time so prophetic of the happy influence her writings 
were one day to exercise, that the introduction of the con- 
cluding paragraph may not be unwelcome to the readers of 
this little memorial. After quoting from the poem, the 
reviewer thus proceeds, — 'These extracts must, we think, 
convey to every reader a favourable impression of the talents 
of their author, and of the admirable purposes to which her 
high gifts are directed. It is the great defect, as we imagine, 
of some of the most popular writers of the day, that they are 
not sufficiently attentive to the moral dignity of their per- 
formances ; it is the deep, and will be the lasting reproach of 
others, that in this point of view they have wantonly sought 
and realised the most profound literary abasement. With 
the promise of talents not inferior to any, and far superior to 
most of them, the author before us is not only free from every 
stain , but breathes all moral beauty and loveliness ; and it 
will be a memorable coincidence if the era of a woman's sway 
in literature shall become coeval with the return of its moral 
purity and elevation.' From suffrages such as these, Mrs 
Hemans derived not merely present gratification, but en- 
couragement and cheer for her onward course. It was still 
dearer to her to receive the assurances, with which it often 



'Tis well — thine eye is yet undimm'd by time, 
And thy heart bounds, exulting in its prime ; 
Smile then unmoved at Wisdom's warning voice, 
And in the glory of thy strength rejoice ! 

But life hath sterner tasks ; e'en youth's brief 

hours 
Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers ; 
The founts of joy, where pilgrims rest from toil, 
Are few and distant on the desert soil ; 
The soul's pure flame the breath of storms must fan, 
And pain and sorrow claim their nursling — Man ! 
Earth's noblest sons the bitter cup have shared — 
Proud child of reason ! how art thou prepared] 
When years, with silent might, thy frame have 

bow'd, 
And o'er thy spirit cast their wintry cloud, 
Will Memory soothe thee on thy bed of pain 
With the bright images of pleasure's train % 

Yes ! as the sight of some far-distant shore, 
Whose well-known scenes his foot shall tread no 

more, 
Would cheer the seaman, by the eddying wave 
Drawn, vainly struggling, to th' unfathom'd grave ! 
Shall Hope, the faithful cherub, hear thy call, 
She who, like heaven's own sunbeam, smiles for all? 
Will she speak comfort"? — -Thou hast shorn her 

plume, 
That might have raised thee far above the tomb, 

fell to her lot to be blessed, of having, in the exercise of the 
talents intrusted to her, administered balm to the feelings of 
the sorrowful, or taught the desponding where to look for 
comfort. In a letter written at this time to a valued friend, 
recently visited by one of the heaviest of human calamities — 
the loss of an exemplary mother — she thus describes her own 
appreciation of such heart-tributes: — 'It is inexpressibly 
gratifying to me to know, that you should find, any thing I 
have written at all adapted to your present feelings, and that 
The Sceptic should have been one of the last books upon 
which the eyes, now opened upon brighter scenes, were cast. 
Perhaps, when your mind is sufficiently composed, you will 
inform me which were the passages distinguished by the 
approbation of that pure and pious mind : they will be far 
more highly valued by me than any thing I have ever 
written.'— Ibid. pp. 3.34-4. 

" It is pleasing to record the following tribute from Mrs 
Hannah More, in a letter to a friend who had sent her a copy 
of The Sceptic. ' I cannot refuse myself the gratification of 
saying, that I entertain a very high opinion of Mrs Hemans's 
superior genius and refined taste. I rank her, as a poet, 
very high, and I have seen no work on the subject of her 
Modern Greece which evinces more just views, or more 
delicate perceptions of the fine and the beautiful. I am glad 
she has employed her powerful pen, in this new instance, 
on a subject so worthy of it ; and, anticipating the future 
by the past, I promise myself no small pleasure in the per- 
usal, and trust it will not only confer pleasure, but benefit.' " 
— Ibid. 



108 



THE SCEPTIC. 



And hush'd the only voice whose angel tone 
Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown ! 

For she was born beyond the stars to soar, 
And kindling at the source of life, adore ; 
Thou couldst not, mortal ! rivet to the earth 
Her eye, whose beam is of celestial birth ; 
She dwells with those who leave her pinion free, 
And sheds the dews of heaven on all but thee. 

Yet few there are so lonely, so bereft, 
But some true heart, that beats to theirs, is left ; 
And, haply, one whose strong affection's power 
Unchanged may triumph through misfortune's 

hour, 
Still with fond care supports thy languid head, 
And keeps unwearied vigils by thy bed. 

But thou whose thoughts have no blest home 

above, 
Captive of earth ! and canst thou dare to love? 
To nurse such feelings as delight to rest 
Within that hallow'd shrine — a parent's breast, 
To fix each hope, concentrate every tie, 
On one frail idol — destined but to die ; 
Yet mock the faith that points to worlds of light, 
Where sever'd souls, made perfect, re-unite 1 
Then tremble ! cling to every passing joy, 
Twined with the life a moment may destroy ! 
If there be sorrow in a parting tear, 
Still let "for ever " vibrate on thine ear ! 
If some bright hour on rapture's wing hath flown, 
Find more than anguish in the thought — 'tis 

gone ! 

Go ! to a voice such magic influence give, 
Thou canst not lose its melody, and live ; 
And make an eye the lode-star of thy soul, 
And let a glance the springs of thought control ; 
Gaze on a mortal form with fond delight, 
Till the fair vision mingles with thy sight ; 
There seek thy blessings, there repose thy trust, 
Lean on the willow, idolise the dust ! 
Then, when thy treasure best repays thy care, 
Think on that dread "for ever " — and despair ! 

And oh ! no strange, unwonted storm there needs 
To wreck at once thy fragile ark of reeds. 
Watch well its course — explore with anxious eye 
Each little cloud that floats along the sky : 
Is the blue canopy serenely fair ? 
Yet may the thunderbolt unseen be there, 
And the bark sink when peace and sunshine sleep 
On the smooth bosom of the waveless deep ! 



Yes ! ere a sound, a sign, announce thy fate, 
May the blow fall which makes thee desolate ! 
Not always heaven's destroying angel shrouds 
His awful form in tempests and in clouds ; 
He fills the summer air with latent power, 
He hides his venom in the scented flower, 
He steals upon thee in the zephyr's breath, 
And festal garlands veil the shafts of death ! 

Where art thou then, who thus didst rashly cast 
Thine all upon the mercy of the blast, 
And vainly hope the tree of life to find 
Rooted in sands that flit before the wind 1 
Is not that earth thy spirit loved so well, 
It wish'd not in a brighter sphere to dwell, 
Become a desert noiv, a vale of gloom, 
O'ershadow'd with the midnight of the tomb 1 
Where shalt thou turn 1 It is not thine to raise 
To yon pure heaven thy calm confiding gaze — 
No gleam reflected from that realm of rest 
Steals on the darkness of thy troubled breast ; 
Not for thine eye shall Faith divinely shed 
Her glory round the image of the dead ; 
And if, when slumber's lonely couch is prest, 
The form departed be thy spirit's guest, 
It bears no light from purer worlds to this ; 
Thy future lends not e'en a dream of bliss. 

But who shall dare the gate of life to close, 
Or say, thus far the stream of mercy flows 1 
That fount unseal'd, whose boundless waves' 

embrace 
Each distant isle, and visit every race, 
Pours from the throne of God its current free, 
Nor yet denies th' immortal draught to thee. 
Oh ! while the doom impends, not yet decreed, 
While yet th' Atoner hath not ceased to plead — 
While still, suspended by a single hair, 
The sharp bright sword hangs quivering in the air, 
Bow down thy heart to Him who will not break 
The bruised reed ; e'en yet, awake, awake ! 
Patient, because Eternal, 1 He may hear 
Thy prayer of agony with pitying ear, 
And send his chastening Spirit from above, 
O'er the deep chaos of thy soul to move. 

But seek thou mercy through his name alone, 
To whose unequall'd sorrows none was shown ; 
Through Him, who here in mortal garb abode, 
As man to suffer, and to heal as God ; 
And, born the sons of utmost time to bless, 
Endured all scorn, and aided all distress. 

1 " He is patient, because He is eternal." — St Augustine. 



THE SCEPTIC. 



109 



Call thou on Him ! for he, in human form, 
Hath walk'd the waves of life, and still'd the storm. 
He, when her hour of lingering grace was past, 
O'er Salem wept, relenting to the last — ■ 
Wept with such tears as Judah's monarch pour'd 
O'er his lost child, ungrateful, yet deplored ; 
And, offering guiltless blood that guilt might live, 
Taught from his Cross the lesson — to forgive ! 

Call thou on Him ! His prayer e'en then arose, 
Breathed in unpitied anguish for his foes. 
And haste ! — ere bursts the lightning from on high, 
Fly to the City of thy Eefuge, fly I 1 
So shall th' Avenger turn his steps away, 
And sheath his falchion, baffled of its prey. 

Yet must long days roll on, ere peace shall brood, 
As the soft halcyon, o'er thy heart subdued ; 
Ere yet the Dove of Heaven descend to shed 
Inspiring influence o'er thy fallen head. 
— He who hath pined in dungeons, midst the shade 
Of such deep night as man for man hath made, 
Through lingering years — if call'd at length to be 
Once more, by nature's boundless charter, free 
Shrinks feebly back, the blaze of noon to shun, 
Fainting at day, and blasted by the sun. 

Thus, when the captive soul hath long remain'd 
In its own dread abyss of darkness chain' d, 
If the Deliverer, in his might at last, 
Its fetters, born of earth, to earth should cast, 
The beam of truth o'erpowers its dazzled sight, 
Trembling it sinks, and finds no joy in light. 
But this will pass away : that spark of mind, 
Within thy frame unquenchably enshrined, 
Shall live to triumph in its brightening ray, 
Bom to be foster'd with ethereal day. 
Then wilt thou bless the hour when o'er thee pass'd, 
On wing of flame, the purifying blast, 
And sorrow's voice, through paths before untrod, 
Like Sinai's trumpet, call'd thee to thy God ! 

But hopest thou, in thy panoply of pride, 
Heaven's messenger, affliction, to deride ] 
In thine own strength unaided to defy, 
With Stoic smile, the arrows of the sky 1 
Torn by the vulture, fetter'd to the rock, 
Still, demigod ! the tempest wilt thou mock 1 
Alas ! the tower that crests the mountain's brow 
A thousand years may awe the vale below, 

1 " Then ye shall appoint you cities, to be cities of refuge 
for you ; that the slayer may flee thither which killeth any 
person at unawares. — And they shall be unto you cities of 
refuge from the avenger."— Numbers, chap. xxxv. 



Yet not the less be shatter'd on its height 

By one dread moment of the earthquake's might ! 

A thousand pangs thy bosom may have borne, 

In silent fortitude or haughty scorn, 

Till comes the one, the master-anguish, sent 

To break the mighty heart that ne'er was bent. 

Oh ! what is nature's strength ? The vacant eye, 
By mind deserted, hath a dread reply ! 
The wild delirious laughter of despair, 
The mirth of frenzy — seek an answer there ! 
Turn not away, though pity's cheek grow pale, 
Close not thine ear against their awful tale. 
They tell thee Beason, wandering from the ray 
Of Faith, the blazing pillar of her way, 
In the mid-darkness of the stormy wave 
Forsook the struggling soul she could not save ! 
Weep not, sad moralist ! o'er desert plains 
Strew'd with the wrecks of grandeur — mouldering 

fanes, 
Arches of triumph, long with weeds o'ergrown, 
And regal cities, now the serpent's own : 
Earth has more awful ruins— one lost mind, 
Whose star is quench' d, hath lessons for mankind 
Of deeper import than each prostrate dome 
Mingling its marble with the dust of Rome. 

But who with eye unshrinking shall explore 
That waste, illumed by reason's beam no more 1 
Who pierce the deep mysterious clouds that roll 
Around the shatter'd temple of 'the soul, 
Curtain'd with midnight 1 Low its columns lie, 
And dark the chambers of its imagery ; 2 
Sunk are its idols now — and God alone 
May rear the fabric by their fall o'erthrown ! 
Yet from its inmost shrine, by storms laid bare, 
Is heard an oracle that cries — " Beware ! 
Child of the dust ! but ransom'd of the skies ! 
One breath of heaven, and thus thy glory dies ! 
Haste, ere the hour of doom — draw nigh to Him 
Who dwells above, between the cherubim ! " 

Spirit dethroned ! and eheck'd in mid career- 
Son of the morning ! exiled from thy sphere, 
Tell us thy tale ! Perchance thy race was run 
With science in the chariot of the sun ; 
Free as the winds the paths of space to sweep, 
Traverse the untrodden kingdoms of the deep, 
And search the laws that nature's springs control, 
There tracing all — save Him who guides the 
whole ! 

2 " Everyman in the chambers of his imagery." — Ezekiel, 
chap. viii. 



110 



THE SCEPTIC. 



Haply thine eye its ardent glance had cast 
Through the dim shades, the portals of the past ; 
By the bright lamp of thought thy care had fed 
From the far beacon-lights of ages fled, 
The depths of time exploring, to retrace 
The glorious march of many a vanish'd race. 

Or did thy power pervade the living lyre 
Till its deep chords became instinct with fire, 
Silenced all meaner notes, and swell'd on high, 
Full and alone, their mighty harmony ; 
While woke each passion from its cell profound, 
And nations started at th' electric sound 1 

Lord of th' ascendant ! what avails it now, 
Though bright the laurels waved upon thy brow? 
What though thy name, through distant empires 

heard, 
Bade the heart bound, as doth a battle-word 1 
Was it for this thy still unwearied eye 
Kept vigil with the watchfires of the sky, 
To make the secrets of all ages thine, 
And commune with majestic thoughts that shine 
O'er Time'slong shadowy pathway? — hath thy mind 
Sever'd its lone dominions from mankind, 
For this to woo their homage ! Thou hast sought 
All. save the wisdom with salvation fraught, 
Won every wreath — but that which will not die, 
Nor aught neglected — save eternity ! 

And did all fail thee in the hour of wrath, 
When burst th' o'erwhelming vials on thy path ? 
Could not the voice of Fame inspire thee then, 
spirit ! sceptred by the sons of men, 
With an immortal's courage, to sustain 
The transient agonies of earthly pain 1 
— One, one there was, all-powerful to have saved 
When the loud fury of the billow raved ; 
But him thou knew'st not — and the light he lent 
Hath vanish'd from its ruin'd tenement, 
But left thee breathing, moving, lingering yet, 
A thing we shrink from — vainly to forget ! 
— Lift the dread veil no further ! Hide, oh hide 
The bleeding form, the couch of suicide ! 
The dagger, grasp'd in death — the brow, the eye, 
Lifeless, yet stamp'd with rage and agony ; 
The soul's dark traces left in many a line 
Graved on his mein, who died — " and made no sign !" 
Approach not, gaze not — lest thy fever'd brain 
Too deep that image of despair retain. 
Angels of slumber ! o'er the midnight hour 
Let not such visions claim unhallow'd power, 
Lest the mind sink with terror, and above 
See but th' Avenger's arm, forget th' Atoner's love ! 



Thou ! th' unseen, th' all-seeing ! — Thou whose 
ways, 
Mantled with darkness, mock all finite gaze, 
Before whose eyes the creatures of Thy hand, 
Seraph and man alike, in weakness stand, 
And countless ages, trampling into clay 
Earth's empires on their march, are but a day ■ 
Father of worlds unknown, unnumber'd ! — Thou, 
With whom all time is one eternal now, [breath 
Who know'st no past nor future — Thou whose 
Goes forth, and bears to myriads life or death ! 
Look on us ! guide us ! — wanderers of a sea 
Wild and obscure, what are we, reft of Thee ? 
A thousand rocks, deep-hid, elude our sight, 
A star may set — and we are lost in night ; 
A breeze may waft us to the whirlpool's brink, 
A treacherous song allure us — and we sink ! 

Oh ! by His love, who, veiling Godhead's light, 
To moments circumscribed the Infinite, 
And heaven and earth disdain' d not to ally 
By that dread union — Man with Deity ; 
Immortal tears o'er mortal woes who shed, 
And, ere he raised them, wept above the dead ; 
Save, or we perish ! Let Thy word control 
The earthquakes of that universe — the soul ; 
Pervade the depths of passion ; speak once more 
The mighty mandate, guard of every shore, 
" Here shall thy waves be stay'd ;" in grief, in pain, 
The fearful poise of reason's sphere maintain. 
Thou, by whom suns are balanced ! thus secure 
In Thee shall faith and fortitude endure ; 
Conscious of Thee, unfaltering, shall the just 
Look upward still, in high and holy trust, 
And by affliction guided to Thy shrine, 
The first, last thought of suffering hearts be Thine. 

And oh ! be near when, clothed with conquering 
power, 
The King of Terrors claims his own dread hour : 
When on the edge of that unknown abyss 
Which darkly parts us from the realm of bliss, 
Awe-struck alike the timid and the brave, 
Alike subdued the monarch and the slave, 
Must drink the cup of trembling 1 — when we see 
Nought in the universe but Death and Thee, 
Forsake us not ! If still, when life was young, 
Faith to thy bosom, as her home, hath sprung, 
If Hope's retreat hath been, through all the past, 
The shadow by the Rock of Ages cast, 
Father, forsake us not ! When tortures urge 
The shrinking soul to that mysterious verge — 

1 " Thou hast drunken the dregs of the cup of trembling, 
and wrung them out." — Isaiah, chap. li. 



THE SCEPTIC. 



Ill 



When from thy justice to thy love we fly, 
On nature's conflict look with pitying eye ; 
Bid the strong wind, the fire, the earthquake cease, 
Come in the " small still voice," and whisper — 
Peace ! ] 

For oh ! 'tis awful ! He that hath beheld 
The parting spirit, by its fears repell'd, 
Cling in weak terror to its earthly chain, 
And from the dizzy brink recoil, in vain ; 
He that hath seen the last convulsive throe 
Dissolve the union form'd and closed in woe, 
"Well knows that hour is awful. In the pride 
Of youth and health, by sufferings yet untried, 
We talk of Death as something which 'twere sweet 
In glory's arms exultingly to meet — 
A closing triumph, a majestic scene, 
Where gazing nations watch the hero's mien, 
As, undismay'd amidst the tears of all, 
He folds his mantle, regally to fall ! 
— Hush, fond enthusiast ! Still, obscure, and lone, 
Yet not less terrible because unknown, 
Is the last hour of thousands : they retire 
From life's throng'd path, unnoticed to expire. 
As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears 
Some trembling insect's little world of cares, 
Descends in silence — while around waves on 
The mighty forest, reckless what is gone ! 
Such is man's doom ; and, ere an hour be flown, 
— Start not, thou trifler ! — such may be thine own. 

But, as life's current in its ebb draws near 
The shadowy gulf, there wakes a thought of fear, 
A thrilling thought which, haply mock'd before, 
We fain would stifle — but it sleeps no more ! 
There are who fly its murmurs midst the throng 
That join the masque of revelry and song : 
Yet still Death's image, by its power restored, 
Frowns midst the roses of the festal board; 
And when deep shades o'er earth and ocean brood, 
And the heart owns the might of solitude, 
Is its low whisper heard 1 — a note profound, 
But wild and startling as the trumpet sound 
That bursts, with sudden blast, the dead repose 
Of some proud city, storm'd by midnight foes ! 

Oh ! vainly Reason's scornful voice would prove 
That life had nought to claim such lingering love, 
And ask if e'er the captive, half unchain'd, 
Clung to the links which yet his step restrain'd. 

1 " And behold the Lord passed by, and a great and strong 
wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before 
the Lord ; but the Lord was not in the wind : and after the 
wind an earthquake ; but the Lord was not in the earthquake : 



In vain Philosophy, with tranquil pride, 
Would mock the feelings she perchance can hide, 
Call up the countless armies of the dead, 
Point to the pathway beaten by their tread, 
And say — " What wouldst thou ] Shall the fix'd 

decree, 
Made for creation, be reversed for thee ? " 
Poor, feeble aid ! Proud Stoic ! ask not why — 
It is enough that nature shrinks to die. 
Enough, that horror, which thy words upbraid, 
Is her dread penalty, and must be paid ! 
Search thy deep wisdom, solve the scarce defined 
And mystic questions of the parting mind, 
Half check'd, half utter'd : tell her what shall burst, 
In whelming grandeur, on her vision first, [world 
When freed from mortal films — what viewless 
Shall first receive her wing, but half unfurl'd — 
What awful and unbodied beings guide 
Her timid flight through regions yet untried ; 
Say if at once, her final doom to hear, 
Before her God the trembler must appear, 
Or wait that day of terror, when the sea 
Shall yield its hidden dead, and heaven and earth 

shall flee 1 

Hast thou no answer ] Then deride no more 
The thoughts that shrink; yet cease not to explore 
The unknown, the unseen, the future — though the 

heart, 
As at unearthly sounds, before them start ; 
Though the frame shudder, and the spirits sigh, 
They have their source in immortality ! [denies, 
Whence, then, shall strength, which reason's aid 
An equal to the mortal conflict rise ? 
When, on the swift pale horse, whose lightning pace, 
Where'er we fly, still wins the dreadful race, 
The mighty rider comes — oh whence shall aid 
Be drawn to meet his rushing, undismay'd ] 
Whence, but from thee, Messiah ! — thou hast 

drain'd 
The bitter cup, till not the dregs remain'd ; 
To thee the struggle and the pangs were known, 
The mystic horror — all became thine own ! 

But did no hand celestial succour bring, 
Till scorn and anguish haply lost their sting 1 
Came not th' Archangel, in the final hoar, 
To arm thee with invulnerable power ] 
No, Son of God ! upon thy sacred head 
The shafts of wrath their tenfold fury shed, 

and after the earthquake a fire ; but the Lord was not in the 
fire : and after the fire a still small voice." — Kings, book i. 
chap. 19. 



112 



THE SCEPTIC. 



From man averted — and thy path on high 
Pass'd through the straight of fiercest agony : 
For thus the Eternal, with propitious eyes, 
Keceived the last, the almighty sacrifice ! 

But wake ! be glad, ye nations ! from the tomb 
Is won the victory, and is fled the gloom ! 
The vale of death in conquest hath been trod. 
Break forth in joy, ye ransom'd ! saith your God ; 
Swell ye the raptures of the song afar, 
And hail with harps your bright and Morning 
Star. 

He rose ! the everlasting gates of day 
Beceived the King of Glory on his way ! 
The hope, the comforter of those who wept, 
And the first-fruits of them in Him that slept, 
He rose, he triumph'd ! he will yet sustain 
Frail nature sinking in the strife of pain. 
Aided by Him, around the martyr's frame 
When fiercely blazed a living shroud of flame, 
Hath the firm soul exulted, and the voice 
Baised the victorious hymn, and cried, Bejoice ! 
Aided by Him, though none the bed attend 
Where the lone sufferer dies without a friend, 
He whom the busy world shall miss no more 
Than morn one dewdrop from her countless store, 
Earth's most neglected child, with trusting heart, 
Call'd to the hope of glory, shall depart ! 

And say, cold Sophist ! if by thee bereft 
Of that high hope, to misery what were left 1 
But for the vision of the days to be, 
But for the comforter despised by thee, 
Should we not wither at the Chastener's look, 
Should we not sink beneath our God's rebuke, 
When o'er our heads the desolating blast, 
Fraught with inscrutable decrees, hath pass'd, 
And the stern power who seeks the noblest prey 
Hath call'd our fairest and our best away 1 
Should we not madden when our eyes behold 
All that we loved in marble stillness cold, 
No more responsive to our smile or sigh, 
Fix'd — frozen — silent — all mortality 1 
But for the promise, " All shall yet be well," 
Would not the spirit in its pangs rebel 
Beneath such clouds as darken'd when the hand 
Of wrath lay heavy on our prostrate land ; 
And thou, 1 just lent thy gladden'd isles to bless, 
Then snatch'd from earth with all thy loveliness, 
With all a nation's blessings on thy head, 
England's flower ! wert gather'd to the dead 1 

1 The Princess Charlotte. 



But thou didst teach us. Thou to every heart 

Faith's lofty lesson didst thyself impart ! 

When fled the hope through all thy pangs which 

smiled, 
When thy young bosom o'er thy lifeless child 
Yearn'd with vain longing— still thy patient eye 
To its last light beam'd holy constancy ! 
Torn from a lot in cloudless sunshine cast, 
Amidst those agonies — thy first and last, 
Thy pale lip, quivering with convulsive throes, 
Breathed not a plaint — and settled in repose ; 
While bow'd thy royal head to Him whose power 
Spoke in the fiat of that midnight hour, 
Who from the brightest vision of a throne, 
Love, glory, empire, claim'd thee for his own, 
And spread such terror o'er the sea-girt coast, 
As blasted Israel when her ark was lost ! 

" It is the will of God ! " — yet, yet we hear 
The words which closed thy beautiful career ; 
Yet should we mourn thee in thy blest abode, 
But for that thought—'' It is the will of God ! " 
Who shall arraign th' Eternal's dark decree 
If not one murmur then escaped from thee ? 
Oh ! still, though vanishing without a trace, 
Thou hast not left one scion of thy race, 
Still may thy memory bloom our vales among, 
Hallow'd by freedom and enshrined in song ! 
Still may thy pure, majestic spirit dwell 
Bright on the isles which loved thy name so well, 
E'en as an angel, with presiding care, 
To wake and guard thine own high virtues there. 

For lo ! the hour when storm-presaging skies 
Call on the watchers of the land to rise, 
To set the sign of fire on every height, 2 
And o'er the mountains rear with patriot might, 
Prepared, if summon' d, in its cause to die, 
The banner of our faith, the Cross of victory ! 
By this hath England conquer' d. Field and flood 
Have own'd her sovereignty : alone she stood, 
When chains o'er all the sceptred earth were 

thrown, 
In high and holy singleness, alone, 
But mighty in her God— and shall she now 
Forget before th' Omnipotent to bow 1 
From the bright fountain of her glory turn, 
Or bid strange fire upon his altars burn? 
No ! sever'd land, midst rocks and billows rude, 
Throned in thy majesty of solitude, 
Still in the deep asylum of thy breast 
Shall the pure elements of greatness rest, 

2 " And set up a sign of tire." — Jeremiah, chap. vi. 



THE SCEPTIC. 



113 



Virtue and faith, the tutelary powers, 

Thy hearths that hallow, and defend thy towers ! 

Still, where thy hamlet vales, chosen isle ! 
In the soft beauty of their verdure smile, 
Where yew and elm o'ershade the lowly fanes 
That guard the peasant's records and remains, 
May the blest echoes of the Sabbath-bell 
Sweet on the quiet of the woodlands swell, 
And from each cottage-dwelling of thy glades, 
When starlight glimmers through the deepening 

shades, 
Devotion's voice in choral hymns arise, 
And bear the land's warm incense to the skies. 
There may the mother, as with anxious joy 
To heaven her lessons consecrate her boy, 
Teach his young accent still the immortal lays 
Of Zion's bards, in inspiration's days, 
When angels, whispering through the cedar shade, 
Prophetic tones to Judah's harp convey'd ; 
And as, her soul all glistening in her eyes, 
She bids the prayer of infancy arise, 
Tell of His name who left his throne on high, 
Earth's lowliest lot to bear and sanctify, 
His love divine, by keenest anguish tried, 
And fondly say — "My child, for thee He died ! " 

[What follows is worthy of heing here recorded. Thirteen 
years after the publication of the Sceptic, and when the 
author, towards the termination of her earthly career, was 
residing with her family in Dublin, a circumstance occurred 
by which Mrs Hemans was greatly affected and impressed. 
A stranger one day called at her house, and begged earnestly 
to see her. She was then just recovering from one of her 
frequent illnesses, and was obliged to decline the visits of all 
but her immediate friends. The applicant was therefore told 
that she was unable to receive him ; but he persisted in en- 
treating for a few minutes' audience, with such urgent impor- 
tunity that at last the point was conceded. The moment he 
was admitted, the gentleman (for such his manner and 
appearance declared him to be) explained, in words and tones 
of the deepest feeling, that the object of his visit was to 
acknowledge a debt of obligation which he could not rest 
satisfied without avowing — that to her he owed, in the first 
instance, that faith and those hopes which were now more 
precious to him than life itself ; for that it was by reading her 
poem of The Sceptic he had been first awakened from the 
miserable delusions of infidelity, and induced to " search the 
Scriptures." Having poured forth his thanks and benedic- 
tions in an uncontrollable gush of emotion, this strange but 
interesting visitant took his departure, leaving her over- 
whelmed with a mingled sense of joyful gratitude and won- 
dering humility.— Memoir, p. 255-6.] 

CRITICAL EXTRACTS FROM REVIEWS. 

North American Review.—" In 1820 Mrs Hemans pub- 
lished The Sceptic, a poem of great merit for its style and its 
sentiments, of which.we shall give a rapid sketch. She con- 
siders the influence of unbelief on the affections and gentler 
part of our nature, and, after pursuing the picture of the 
misery consequent on doubt, shows the relief that may be 



found in the thoughts that have their source in immortality. 
Glancing at pleasure as the only resort of the sceptic, she 
turns to the sterner tasks of life : — 

' E'en youth's brief hours 
Survive the beauty of their loveliest flowers ; 
The soul's pure flame the breath of storms must fan, 
And pain and sorrow claim their nursling — Man.' 

But then the sceptic has no relief in memory ; for memory 
recalls no joys but such as were transitory, and known to be 
such ; and as for hope — 

' She, who like heaven's own sunbeam, smiles for all, 
Will she speak comfort ?— Thou hast shorn her plume, 
That might have raised thee far above the tomb, 
And hush'd the only voice whose angel-tone 
Soothes when all melodies of joy are flown.' 

" The poet thenasks, if an infidel dare love ; and, having 
no home for his thoughts in a better world, nurse such feel- 
ings as delight to enshrine themselves in the breast of a 
parent. She addresses him on the insecurity of an attach- 
ment to a vain idol, from which death may at any time 

divide him 'forever.' For relief the infidel is 

referred to the Christian religion, in a strain which unites 

the fervour of devotion with poetic sensibility 

The poem proceeds to depict, in a forcible manner, the unfor- 
tunate state of a mind which acquires every kind of know- 
ledge but that which gives salvation ; and, having gained 
possession of the secrets of all ages, and communed with the 
majestic minds that shine along the pathway of time, neglects 
nothing but eternity. Such a one, in the season of suffering, 
finds relief in suicide, and escapes to death as to an eternal 
rest. The thought of death recurs to the mind of the poet, 
and calls forth a fervent prayer for the divine presence and 
support in the hour of dissolution ; for the hour, when the 
soul is brought to the mysterious verge of another life, is an 
' awful one.' .... This is followed by an allusion to 
the strong love of life which belongs to human nature, and 
the instinctive apprehension with which the parting mind 
muses on its future condition, and asks of itself mystic 
questions, that it cannot solve. But through the influence of 
religion — 

He whom the busy world shall miss no more 
Than morn one dewdrop from her countless store, 
Earth's most neglected child, with trusting heart, 
Call'd to the hope of glory, shall depart.' 

"After some lines expressing the spirit of English patriotism, 
in a manner with which foreigners can only be pleased, the 
poem closes with the picture of a mother teaching her child 
the first lessons of religion, by holding up the divine example 
of the Saviour. 

" We have been led into a longer notice of this poem, for 
it illustrates the character of Mrs Hemans's manner. We 
perceive in it a loftiness of purpose, an earnestness of thought, 
sometimes made more interesting by a tinge of melancholy, 
a depth of religious feeling, a mind alive to all the interests, 
gratifications, and sorrows of social life." — Professor 
Norton. 

Edinburgh Monthly Review. — "We have on more than 
one occasion expressed the very high opinion which we enter- 
tain of the talents of this lady ; and it is gratifying to find 
that she gives us no reason to retract or modify in any degree 
the applause already bestowed, and that every fresh exhibi- 
tion of her powers enhances and confirms her claims upon 
our admiration. Mrs Hemans is indeed but in the infancy of 
her poetical career ; but it is an infancy of unrivalled beauty, 
and of very high promise. Not but that she has already 



114 



SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. 



performed more than has often been sufficient to win for other 
candidates no mean place in the roll of fame, but because 
what she has already done shrinks, when compared with 
what we consider to be her own great capacity, to mere inci- 
pient excellence — the intimation rather than the fulfilment of 
the high destiny of her genius. 

. ..." The verses of Mrs Hemans appear the spon- 
taneous offspring of intense and noble feeling, governed by a 
clear understanding, and fashioned into elegance by an ex- 
quisite delicacy and precision of taste. With more than the 
force of many of her masculine competitors, she never ceases 
to be strictly feminine in the whole current of her thought 
and feeling, nor approaches by any chance the verge of that 
free and intrepid course of speculation, of which the boldness 
is more conspicuous than the wisdom, but into which some 
of the most remarkable among the female literati of our times 
have freely and fearlessly plunged. She has, in the poem 
before us, made choice of a subject of which it would have 
been very difficult to have reconciled the treatment, in the 
hands of some female authors, to the delicacy which belongs 
to the sex, and the tenderness and enthusiasm which form its 
finest characteristics. A coarse and chilling cento of the 
exploded fancies of modern scepticism, done into rhyme by 
the hand of a woman, would have been doubly disgusting, 
by the revival of absurdities long consigned to oblivion, and 
by the revolting exhibition of a female mind shorn of all its 
attractions, and wrapt in darkness and defiance. But Mrs 
Hemans has chosen the better and the nobler cause, and, 
while she has left in the poem before us every trace of vigo- 
rous intellect of which the subject admitted, and has far 
transcended in energy of thought the prosing pioneers of un- 
belief, she has sustained throughout a tone of warm and con- 
fiding piety, and has thus proved that the humility of hope 
and of faith has in it none of the weakness with which it has 



been charged by the arrogance of impiety, but owns a divine 
and mysterious vigour residing under the very aspect of gentle- 
ness and devotion." 

Quarterly Review. — "Her last two publications are works 
of a higher stamp ; works, indeed, of which no living poet 
need to be ashamed. The first of them is entitled The Sceptic, 
and is devoted, as our readers will easily anticipate, to advo- 
cating the cause of religion. Undoubtedly the poem must 
have owed its being to the circumstances of the times— to a 
laudable indignation at the course which literature in many 
departments seemed lately to be taking in this country, and 
at the doctrines disseminated with industry, principally (but 
by no means exclusively, as has been falsely supposed) among 
the lower orders. Mrs Hemans, however, does not attempt 
to reason learnedly or laboriously in verse ; few poems, osten- 
sibly philosophical or didactic, have ever been of use, except 
to display the ingenuity and talent of the writers. People are 
not often taught a science or an art in poetry, and much less 
will an infidel be converted by a theological treatise in verse. 
But the argument of The Sceptic is one of irresistible force to 
confirm a wavering mind ; it is simply resting the truth of 
religion on the necessity of it — on the utter misery and help- 
lessness of man without it. This argument is in itself avail- 
able for all the purposes of poetry : it appeals to the imagina- 
tion and passions of man ; it is capable of interesting all our 
affectionate hopes and charities, of acting upon all our natu- 
ral fears. Mrs Hemans has gone through this range with 
great feeling and ability ; and when she comes to the mind 
which has clothed itself in its own strength, and relying 
proudly on that alone in the hour of affliction, has sunk into 
distraction in the contest, she rises into a strain of moral 
poetry not often surpassed : — 

' Oh, what is nature's strength ? The vacant eye, 
By mind deserted, hath a dread reply,' etc.' - ] 



SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION, 



AN UNFINISHED POEM. 



Beings of brighter worlds ! that rise at times 
As phantoms with ideal beauty fraught, 
In those brief visions of celestial climes 
Which pass like sunbeams o'er the realms of thought, 
Dwell ye around us ? — are ye hovering nigh, 
Throned on the cloud, or buoyant in the air 1 
And in deep solitudes, where human eye 
Can trace no step, Immortals ! are ye there ? 
Oh ! who can tell 1 — what power, but Death alone, 
Can lift the mystic veil that shades the world 
unknown ? 



But Earth hath seen the days, ere yet the flowers 
Of Eden wither'd, when reveal'd ye shone 



In all your brightness midst those holy bowers — 
Holy, but not unfading, as your own ! 
While He, the child of that primeval soil, 
With you its paths in high communion trode, 
His glory yet undimm'd by guilt or toil 
And beaming in the image of his God, 
And his pure spirit glowing from the sky, 
Exulting in its light, a spark of Deity. 



Then, haply, mortal and celestial lays, 
Mingling their tones, from nature's temple rose, 
When nought but that majestic song of praise 
Broke on the sanctity of night's repose, 
With music since unheard : and man might trace 
By stream and vale, in deep embow'ring shade, 



SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION 



115 



Devotion's first and loveliest dwelling-place, 
The footsteps of th' Omnipotent, who made 
That spot a shrine, where youthful nature cast 
Her consecrated wealth, rejoicing as He pass'd. 



Short were those days, and soon, sons of Heaven! 
Your aspect changed for man. In that dread hour, 
When from his paradise the alien driven 
Beheld your forms in angry splendour tower, 
Guarding the clime where he no more might dwell 
"With meteor-swords : he saw the living flame, 
And his first cry of misery was — " Farewell ! " 
His heart's first anguish, exile : he became 
A pilgrim on the earth, whose children's lot [not. 
Is still for happier lands to pine — and reach them 

v. 
Where now the chosen bowers that once beheld 
Delight and Love their first bright sabbath keep? 
From all its founts the world of waters swell'd, 
And wrapt them in the mantle of the deep ! 
For He, to whom the elements are slaves, 
In wrath unchain'd the oceans of the cloud, 
And heaved the abyss beneath, till waves on waves 
Folded creation in their mighty shroud ; 
Then left the earth a solitude, o'erspread 
With its own awful wrecks — a desert of the dead. 



But onward flow'd life's busy course again, 
And rolling ages with them bore away — 
As to be lost amidst the boundless main, 
Rich orient streams their golden sands convey — 
The hallow'd lore of old— the guiding light 
Left by tradition to the sons of earth, 
And the blest memory of each sacred rite 
Known in the region of their father's birth, 
When in each breeze around his fair abode [God. 
Whisper'd a seraph's voice, or lived the breath of 

vn. 
Who hath not seen, what time the orb of day, 
Cinctured with glory, seeks the ocean's breast, 
A thousand clouds all glowing in his ray, 
Catching brief splendour from the purple west 1 
So round thy parting steps, fair Truth ! awhile 
With borrow'd hues unnumber'd phantoms 

shone; 
And Superstition, from thy lingering smile, 
Caught a faint glow of beauty not her own, 
Blending her rites with thine— while yet afar 
Thine eye's last radiance beam'd, a slow-receding 

star. 



Yet still one stream was pure — one sever'd shrine 
Was fed with holier fire, by chosen hands ; 
And sounds, and dreams, and impulses divine, 
Were in the dwellings of the patriarch bands. 
There still the father to his child bequeath'd 
The sacred torch of never-dying flame ; 
There still Devotion's suppliant accents breathed 
The One adored and everlasting Name ; 
And angel guests would linger and repose 
Where those primeval tents amid their palm-trees 
rose. 



But far o'er earth the apostate wanderers bore 
Their alien rites. For them, by fount or shade, 
Nor voice, nor vision, holy as of yore, 
In thrilling whispers to the soul convey'd 
High inspiration : yet in every clime, 
Those sons of doubt and error fondly sought 
With beings, in their essence more sublime, 
To hold communion of mysterious thought ; 
On some dread power in trembling hope to lean, 
And hear in every wind the accents of th' 
Unseen. 

x. 

Yes ! we have need to bid our hopes repose 
On some protecting influence : here confined, 
Life hath no healing balm for mortal woes, 
Earth is too narrow for th' immortal mind. 
Our spirits burn to mingle with the day, 
As exiles panting for their native coast, 
Yet lured by every wild-flower from their way, 
And shrinking from the gulf that must be 

cross'd. 
Death hovers round us : in the zephyr's sigh, 
As in the storm, he comes — and lo ! Eternity ! 



As one left lonely on the desert sands 
Of burning Afric, where, without a guide, 
He gazes as the pathless waste expands — 
Around, beyond, interminably wide ; 
While the red haze, presaging the Simoom, 
Obscures the fierce resplendence of the sky, 
Or suns of blasting light perchance illume 
The glistening Serab x which illudes his eye : 
Such was the wanderer Man, in ages flown, 
Kneeling in doubt and fear before the dread 
Unknown. 

1 Serab, mirage. 



116 



SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION. 



XII. 

His thoughts explored the past — and where were 

they, 
The chiefs of men, the mighty ones gone by 1 
He turn'd — a boundless void before him lay, 
Wrapp'd in the shadows of futurity. 
How knew the child of Nature that the flame 
He felt within him struggling to ascend, 
Should perish not with that terrestrial frame 
Doom'd with the earth on which it moved, to blend] 
How, when affliction bade his spirit bleed, 
If 'twere a Father's love or Tyrant's wrath de- 
creed ? 



Oh ! marvel not if then he sought to trace 
In all sublimities of sight and sound, 
In rushing winds that wander through all space, 
Or midst deep woods, with holy gloom em- 

brown'd, 
The oracles of Fate ! or if the train 
Of floating forms that throng the world of sleep, 
And sounds that vibrate on the slumberer's brain, 
When mortal voices rest in stillness deep, 
Were deem'd mysterious revelations, sent 
From viewless powers, the lords of each dread 

element. 

xrv. 
Was not wild Nature, in that elder-time, 
Clothed with a deeper power 1 — earth's wandering 

race, 
Exploring realms of solitude sublime, 
Not as we see, beheld her awful face ! 
Art had not tamed the mighty scenes which met 
Their searching eyes ; unpeopled kingdoms lay 
In savage pomp before them — all was yet 
Silent and vast, but not as in decay ; 
And the bright daystar, from his burning throne, 
Look'd o'er a thousand shores, untrodden, voice- 
less, lone. 



The forests in their dark luxuriance waved. 
With all their swell of strange iEolian sound ; 
The fearful deep, sole region ne'er enslaved, 
Heaved, in its pomp of terror, darkly round. 
Then, brooding o'er the images, imprest 
By forms of grandeur thronging on his eye, 
And faint traditions, guarded in his breast, 
Midst dim remembrances of infancy, 
Man shaped unearthly presences, in dreams, 
Peopling each wilder haunt of mountains, groves, 
and streams. 



Then bled the victim — then in every shade 
Of rock or turf arose the votive shrine ; 
Fear bov/d before the phantoms she portray d, 
And Nature teem'd with many a mystic sign. 
Meteors, and storms, and thunders ! ye whose 

course 
E'en yet is awful to th' enlighten'd eye, 
As, wildly rushing from your secret source, 
Your sounding chariot sweeps the realms on high, 
Then o'er the earth prophetic gloom ye cast, 
And the wide nations gazed, and trembled as ye 

pass'd. 



But you, ye stars ! in distant glory burning, 
Nurtured with flame, bright altars of the sky ! 
To whose far climes the spirit, vainly turning, 
Would pierce the secrets of infinity — 
To you the heart, bereft of other light, 
Its first deep homage paid, on Eastern plains, 
Where Day hath terrors, but majestic Night, 
Calm in her pomp, magnificently reigns, 
Cloudless and silent, circled with the race 
Of some unnumber'd orbs, that light the depths of 
space. 



Shine on ! and brightly plead for erring thought, 

Whose wing, unaided in its course, explored 

The wide creation, and beholding nought 

Like your eternal beauty, then adored 

Its living splendours ; deeming them inform'd 

By natures temper'd with a holier fire — ■ 

Pure beings, with ethereal effluence warm'd, 

Who to the source of spirit might aspire, 

And mortal prayers benignantly convey 

To some presiding Power, more awful far than they. 



Guides o'er the desert and the deep ! to you 
The seaman turn'd, rejoicing at the helm, 
When from the regions of empyreal blue 
Ye pour'd soft radiance o'er the ocean-realm ; 
To you the dweller of the plains address'd [own ; 
Vain prayers, that call'd the clouds and dews your 
To you the shepherd, on the mountain's crest, 
Kindled the fires that far through midnight shone, 
As earth would light up all her hills, to vie 
With your immortal host, and image back the sky. 

xx. 
Hail to the queen of heaven ! her silvery crown 
Serenely wearing, o'er her high domain 



SUPERSTITION AND REVELATION 



117 



She walks in brightness, looking cloudless down, 
As if to smile on her terrestrial reign. 
Earth should be hush'd in slumber — but the night 
Calls forth her worshippers ; the feast is spread, 
On hoary Lebanon's umbrageous height 
The shrine is raised, the rich libation shed 
To her, whose beams illume those cedar-shades 
Faintly as Nature's light the 'wilder'd soul pervades. 



But when thine orb, all earth's rich hues restoring, 
Came forth, sun ! in majesty supreme, 
Still, from thy pure exhaustless fountain, pouring 
Beauty and life in each triumphant beam, 
Through thine own East what j oy ous rites pre vail'd ! 
What choral songs re-echo'd ! while thy fire 
Shone o'er its thousand altars, and exhaled 
The precious incense of each odorous pyre, 
Heap'd with the richest balms of spicy vales, 
And aromatic woods that scent the Arabian gales. 

XXTI. 

Yet not with Saba's fragrant wealth alone, 
Balsam and myrrh, the votive pile was strew'd ; 
For the dark children of the burning zone 
Drewfrenzy from thy fervours, andbedew'd [scene, 
"With their own blood thy shrine ; while that wild 
Haply with pitying eye, thine angel view'd, 
And though with glory mantled, and severe 
In his own fulness of beatitude, 
Yet mourn'd for those whose spirits from thy ray 
Caught not one transient spark of intellectual day. 

XXIII. 

But earth had deeper stains. Ethereal powers ! 
Benignant seraphs ! wont to leave the skies, 
And hold high converse, midst his native bowers, 
With the once glorious son of Paradise, [strains 
Look'd ye from heaven in sadness] were your 
Of choral praise suspended in dismay, 
When the polluted shrine of Syria's plains 
With clouds of incense dimm'd the blaze of day ] 
Or did ye veil indignantly your eyes. [fice 1 

While demons hail'd the pomp of human sacri- 

XXIV. 

And well the powers of evil might rejoice, 
When rose from Tophet's vale the exulting cry, 
And, deaf to Nature's supplicating voice, 
The frantic mother bore her child to die ! 
Around her vainly clung his feeble hands 
With sacred instinct : love hath lost its sway, 
While ruthless zeal the sacrifice demands, 
And the fires blaze, impatient for their prey. 



Let not his shrieks reveal the dreadful tale ! 
Well may the drum's loud peal o'erpower an 
infant's wail? 

xxv. 

A voice of sorrow ! not from thence it rose ; 
'Twas not the childless mother. Syrian maids, 
Wherewith red wave the mountain streamlet flows, 
Keep tearful vigil in their native shades. 
With dirge and plaint the cedar-groves resound, 
Each rock's deep echo for Adonis mourns : 
Weep for the dead ! Away ! the lost is found — 
To life and love the buried god returns ! 
Then wakes the timbrel — then the forests ring, 
And shouts of frenzied j oy are on each breeze's wing ! 



But fill'd with holier joy the Persian stood, 
In silent reverence, on the mountain's brow, 
At early dayspring, while the expanding flood 
Of radiance burst around, above, below — 
Bright, boundless as eternity : he gazed 
Till his full soul, imbibing heaven, o'erflow'd 
In worship of th' Invisible, and praised 
In thee, Sun ! the symbol and abode 
Of life, and power, and excellence — the throne 
Where dwelt the Unapproach'd, resplendently 
alone. 1 



What if his thoughts, with erring fondness, gave 

Mysterious sanctity to things which wear 

Th' Eternal's impress 1 — if the living wave, 

The circling heavens, the free and boundless air — 

If the pure founts of everlasting flame, 

Deep in his country's hallow'd vales enshrined, 

And the bright stars maintain'd a silent claim 

To love and homage from his awestruck mind ? 

Still with his spirit dwelt a lofty dream 

Of uncreated Power, far, far o'er these supreme. 

xxvni. 
And with that faith was conquest. He whose name 
To Judah's harp of prophecy had rung — - 

1 At an earlier stage in the composition of this poem, the 
following stanza was here inserted : — 

" Nor rose the Magian's hymn, sublimely swelling 

In full-toned homage to the source of flame, 
From fabric rear'd by man, the gorgeous dwelling 

Of such bright idol-forms as art could frame. 
He rear'd no temple, bade no walls contain 

The breath of incense or the voice of prayer ; 
But made the boundless universe his fane, 

The rocks his altar-stone — adoring there 
The Being whose Omnipotence pervades 
All deserts and all depths, and hallows loneliest shades." 



118 



ITALIAN LITEKATURE. 



He, of whose yet unborn and distant fame 
The mighty voice of Inspiration sung, 
He came, the victor Cyrus ! As he pass'd, 
Thrones to his footstep rock'd, and monarchs lay 
Suppliant and clothed with dust; while nations cast 
Their ancient idols down before his way, 
Who in majestic march, from shore to shore, 
The quenchless flame revered by Persia's children 
bore. 



[In the spring of 1820, Mrs Hemans first made the ac- 
quaintance of one who became afterwards a zealous and valu- 
able friend, revered in life, and sincerely mourned in death — 
Bishop Heber, then Rector of Hodnet, and a frequent visitor 
at Bodryddan, the residence of his fatlier-in-law, the late 
Dean of St Asaph, from whom also, during an intercourse of 
many years, Mrs Hemans at all times received much kindness 
and courtesy. Mr Reginald Heber was the first eminent 
literary character with whom she had ever familiarly asso- 
ciated ; and she therefore entered with a peculiar freshness of 
feeling in to the delight inspired by his conversational powers, 
enhanced as they were by that gentle benignity of manner, 
so often the characteristic of minds of the very highest order. 
In a letter to a friend on this occasion, she thus describes her 
enjoyment: — " I am more delighted with Mr Heber than I 
can possibly tell you ; his conversation is quite rich with anec- 
dote, and every subject on which he speaks had been, you 
would imagine, the whole study of his life. In short, his society 
has made much the same sort of impression on my mind that 
the first persual of Ivanhoe did ; and was something so per- 
fectly new to me, that I can hardly talk of any thing else. I 
had a very long conversation with him on the subject of the 
poem, which he read aloud, and commented upon as he pro- 
ceeded. His manner was so entirely that of a friend, that I 
felt perfectly at ease, and did not hesitate to express all my 
own ideas and opinions on the subject, even where they did 
not exactly coincide with his own." 

The poem here alluded to was the one entitled Superstition 



and Revelation, which Mrs Hemans had commenced some 
time before, and which was intended to embrace a very ex- 
tensive range of subject. Her original design will be best 
given in her own words, from a letter to her friend Miss Park: 
— " I have been thinking a good deal of the plan we discussed 
together, of a poem on national superstitions. 'Our thoughts 
are linked by many a hidden chain,' and in the course of my 
lucubrations on this subject, an idea occurred to me, which 
I hope you will not think me too presumptuous in wishing 
to realise. Might not a poem of some extent and importance, 
if the execution were at all equal to the design, be produced, 
from contrasting the spirit and tenets of Paganism with those 
of Christianity ? It would contain, of course, much classical 
allusion ; and all the graceful and sportive fictions of ancient 
Greece and Italy, as well as the superstitions of more barbar- 
ous climes, might be introduced to prove how little consola- 
tion they could convey in the hour of affliction — or hope, in 
that of death. Many scenes from history might be portrayed 
in illustration of this idea ; and the certainty of a future state, 
and of the immortality of the soul, which we derive from 
revelation, are surely subjects for poetry of the highest class. 
Descriptions of those regions which are still strangers to the 
blessings of our religion, such as the greatest part of Africa, 
India, &c, might contain much that is poetical; but the 
subject is almost boundless, and I think of it till I am startled 
by its magnitude." 

Mr Heber approved highly of the plan of the work, and 
gave her every encouragement to proceed in it ; supplying 
her with many admirable suggestions, both as to the illustra- 
tions which might be introduced with the happiest effect, and 
the sources from whence the requisite information would best 
be derived. But the great labour and research necessary to 
the development of a plan which included the superstitions 
of every age and country, from the earliest of all idolatries — 
the adoration of the sun, moon, and host of heaven, alluded 
to in the book of Job — to the still existing rites of the Hindoos 
— would have demanded a course of study too engrossing to 
be compatible with the many other claims, both domestic and 
literary, which daily pressed more and more upon the author's 
time. The work was, therefore, laid aside ; and the fragment 
now first published is all that remains of it, though the pro- 
ject was never distinctly abandoned.] 



ITALIAN LITEEATURE. 1 



THE BASVIGLIANA OF MONTI. 

FROM SISMONDl'S " LITTERATURE DVJ MIDI." 

Vincenzo Monti, a native of Ferrara, is 
acknowledged, by the unanimous consent of the 

1 " About this time (1820) Mrs Hemans was an occasional 
contributor to the Edinburgh Monthly Magazine, then con- 
ducted by the Rev. Robert Morehead, whose liberal cour- 
tesy in the discharge of his editorial office associated many 
agreeable recollections with the period of this literary inter- 
course. Several of her poems appeared in the above-men- 
tioned periodical, as also a series of papers on foreign litera- 



Italians, as the greatest of their living poets. 
Irritable, impassioned, variable to excess, he is 
always actuated by the impulse of the moment. 
Whatever he feels is felt with the most enthu- 
siastic vehemence. He sees the objects of his 
thoughts — they are present, and clothed with 

ture, which, with very few exceptions, were the only prose 
compositions she ever gave to the world ; and indeed to these 
papers such a distinctive appellation is perhaps scarcely 
applicable, as the prose writing may be considered subordi- 
nate to the poetical translations, which it is used to intro- 
duce." — Memoir, p. 41. 



THE BASVIGLIANA OF MONTI. 



119 



life — before him, and a flexible and harmonious 
language is always at his command to paint them 
with the richest colouring. Persuaded that poetry- 
is only another species of painting, he makes the 
art of the poet consist in rendering apparent, to 
the eyes of all, the pictures created by his imagi- 
nation for himself ; and he permits not a verse 
to escape him which does not contain an image. 
Deeply impressed by the study of Dante, he has 
restored to the character of Italian poetry those 
severe and exalted beauties by which it was 
distinguished at its birth ; and he proceeds from 
one picture to another with a grandeur and dig- 
nity peculiar to himself. It is extraordinary that, 
with something so lofty in his manner and style 
of writing, the heart of so impassioned a character 
should not be regulated by principles of greater 
consistency. In many other poets, this defect 
might pass unobserved : but circumstances have 
thrown the fullest light upon the versatility of 
Monti, and his glory as a poet is attached to 
works which display him in continual opposition 
to himself. Writing in the midst of the various 
Italian revolutions, he has constantly chosen 
political subjects for his compositions, and he has 
successively celebrated opposite parties in pro- 
portion to their success. Let us suppose, in his 
justification, that ho composes as an improvisatore, 
and that his feelings, becoming highly excited by 
the given theme, he seizes the political ideas it 
suggests, however foreign they may be to his 
individual sentiments. 1 In these political poems 
— the object and purport of which are so different 
— the invention and manner are, perhaps, but 
too similar. The Basvigliana, or poem on the 
death of Basville, is the most celebrated ; but, 
since its appearance, it has been discovered that 
Monti, who always imitated Dante, has now also 
very frequently imitated himself. 

Hugh Basville was the French Envoy who was 
put to death at Rome by the people, for attempt- 
ing, at the beginning of the Revolution, to excite 
a sedition against the Pontifical government. 
Monti, who was then the poet of the Pope, as he 
has since been of the Republic, supposes that, at 
the moment of Basville's death, he is saved by a 
sudden repentance, from the condemnation which 
his philosophical principles had merited. But, 

1 The observation of a French author (Le Censeur du Dic- 
tionnaire des Girouettes) on the general versatility of poets, 
seems so peculiarly appropriate to the character of Monti, 
that it might almost be supposed to have been written for the 
express purpose of such an application. — ' ' Le cerveau d' un 
poete est d'une cire molle et flexible, ou s'imprime naturelle- 



as a punishment for his guilt, and a substitute for 
the pains of purgatory, he is condemned by 
Divine Justice to traverse France until the crimes 
of that country have received their due chastise- 
ment, and doomed to contemplate the misfor- 
tunes and reverses to which he has contributed 
by assisting to extend the progress of the Revo- 
lution. 

An angel of heaven conducts Basville from pro- 
vince to province, that he may bebold the desola- 
tion of his lovely country. He then conveys him 
to Paris, and makes him witness the sufferings 
and death of Louis XVI., and afterwards shows 
him the Allied armies prepared to burst upon 
France, and avenge the blood of her king. The 
poem concludes before the issue of the contest 
is known. It is divided into four cantos of three 
hundred lines each, and written in terza rima, 
like the poem of Dante. Not only many expres- 
sions, epithets, and lines are borrowed from the 
Divine Comedy, but the invention itself is similar. 
An angel conducts Basville through the suffering 
world ; and this faithful guide, who consoles and 
supports the spectator-hero of the poem, acts pre- 
cisely the same part which is performed by Virgil 
in Dante. Basville himself thinks, feels, and 
suffers, exactly as Dante would have done. Monti 
has not preserved any traces of his revolutionary 
character — he describes him as feeling more pity 
than remorse — and he seems to forget, in thus 
identifying himself with his hero, that he has at 
first represented Basville, and perhaps without 
foundation, as an infidel and a ferocious revolu- 
tionist. The Basvigliana is, perhaps, more re- 
markable than any other poem for the majesty 
of its verse, the sublimity of its expression, and 
the richness of its colouring. In the first canto the 
spirit of Basville thus takes leave of the body : — 

"Sleep, beloved companion of my woes, 
Rest thou in deep and undisturb'd repose ; 
Till at the last great day, from slumber's bed, 
Heaven's trumpet-summons shall awake the dead. 

"Be the earth light upon thee, mild the shower, 
And soft the breeze's wing, till that dread hour ; 
Nor let the wanderer passing o'er thee, breathe 
Words of keen insult to the dust beneath. 

ment tout ce qui le flatte, le seduit, et Palimente. La muse 
du chant n'a pas de partie ; e'est une etourdie sans conse- 
quence, qui folatre egalement et snr.de riches gazons et sur 
d'arides bruyeres. Un poete en delire chante indifferemment 
Titus et Thamask, Louis 12me e t Cromwell, Christine de 
Suede et Stanchon la Vielleuse." 



120 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



" Sleep thou in peace ! Beyond the funeral pyre, 
There live no flames of vengeance or of ire ; 
And midst high hearts I leave thee, on a shore 
Where mercy's home hath been from days of yore." 

Thus to its earthly form the spirit cried, 
Then turn'd to follow its celestial guide ; 
But with a downcast mien, a pensive sigh, 
A lingering step, and oft reverted eye — 
As when a child's reluctant feet obey 
Its mother's voice, and slowly leave its play. 

Night o'er the earth her dewy veil had cast, 
When from th' Eternal City's towers they pass'd, 
And rising in their flight, on that proud dome, 
Whose walls enshrine the guardian saint of Rome, 
Lo ! where a chemb-form sublimely towcr'd, 
But dreadful in his glory ! Sternly lower'd 
Wrath in his kingly aspect. One he seem'd 
Of the bright seven, whose dazzling splendour 

beam'd 
On high amidst the burning lamps of heaven, 
Seen in the dread, o'erwhelming visions given 
To the rapt seer of Patmos. Wheels of fire 
Seem'd his fierce eyes, all kindling in their ire ; 
And his loose tresses, floating as he stood, 
A comet's glare, presaging woe and blood. 
He waved his sword — its red, terrific light 
With fearful radiance tinged the clouds of night ; 
While his left hand sustain'd a shield so vast, 
Far o'er the Vatican beneath was cast 
Its broad, protecting shadow. As the plume 
Of the strong eagle spreads in sheltering gloom 
O'er its young brood, as yet untaught to soar ; 
And while, all trembling at the whirlwind's roar, 
Each humbler bird shrinks cowering in its nest, 
Beneath that wing of power, and ample breast, 
They sleep unheeding ; while the storm on high 
Breaks not their calm and proud security. 

In the second canto, Basville enters Paris with 
his angelic guide, at the moment preceding the 
execution of Louis XVI. 

The air was heavy, and the brooding skies 
Look'd fraught with omens, as to harmonise 
With his pale aspect. Through the forest round 
Not a leaf whisper'd — and the only sound 
That broke the stillness was a streamlet's moan 
Murmuring amidst the rocks with plaintive tone, 
As if a storm within the woodland bowers 
Were gathering. On they moved — and lo ! the 

towers 
Of a far city ! Nearer now they drew ; 
And all reveal'd, expanding on their view, 



The Babylon, the scene of crimes and woes — 
Paris, the guilty, the devoted, rose ! 

In the dark mantle of a cloud array' d, 
Viewless and hush'd, the angel and the shade 
Enter'd that evil city. Onward pass'd 
The heavenly being first, with brow o'ercast 
And troubled mien, while in his glorious eyes 
Tears had obscured the splendour of the skies. 
Pale with dismay, the trembling spirit saw 
That alter'd aspect, and, in breathless awe, 
Mark'd the strange silence round. The deep- 
toned swell 
Of life's full tide was hush'd ; the sacred bell, 
The clamorous anvil, mute ; all sounds were fled 
Of labour or of mirth, and in their stead 
Terror and stillness, boding signs of woe, 
Inquiring glances, rumours whisper'd low, 
Questions half-uttcr'd, jealous looks that keep 
A fearful watch around, and sadness deep 
That weighs upon the heart ; and voices, heard 
At intervals, in many a broken word — 
Voices of mothers, trembling as they press'd 
Th' unconscious infant closer to their breast ; 
Voices of wives, with fond imploring cries, 
And the wild eloquence of tears and sighs, 
On their own thresholds striving to detain 
Their fierce impatient lords ; but weak and vain 
Affection's gentle bonds, in that dread hour 
Of fate and fury — Love hath lost his power ! 
For evil spirits are abroad, the air 
Breathes of their influence. Druid phantoms there, 
Fired by that thirst for victims which of old 
Raged in their bosoms fierce and uncontroll'd, 
Rush, in ferocious transport, to survey 
The deepest crime that e'er hath dimm'd the day. 
Blood, human blood, hath stain 'd their vests and 

hair, 
On the winds tossing, with a sanguine glare, 
Scattering red showers around them ! Flaming 

brands 
And serpent scourges in their restless hands 
Are wildly shaken. Others lift on high 
The steel, th' envenom'd bowl ; and, hurrying by, 
With touch of fire contagious fury dart 
Through human veins, fast kindling to the heart. 
Then comes the rush of crowds ! restrain'dnomore, 
Fast from each home the frenzied inmates pour ; 
From every heart affrighted mercy flies, 
While her soft voice amidst the tumult dies. 
Then the earth trembles, as from street to street 
The tramp of steeds, the press of hastening feet, 
The roll of wheels, all mingling in the breeze, 
Come deepening onward, as the swell of seas 



THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. 



121 



Heard at the dead of midnight ; or the moan 
Of distant tempests, or the hollow tone 
Of the far thunder ! Then what feelings press'd, 
wretched Basville ! on thy guilty breast ; 
What pangs were thine, thus fated to behold 
Death's awful banner to the winds unfold ! 
To see the axe, the scaffold, raised on high — 
The dark impatience of the murderer's eye, 
Eager for crime ! And he, the great, the good, 
Thy martyr-king, by men athirst for blood 

Dragg'd to a felon's death ! Yet still his mien, 

Midst that wild throng, is loftily serene ; 

And his step falters not. hearts unmoved ! 

Where have you borne your monarch 1 — He who 
loved — 

Loved you so well ! Behold ! the sun grows pale, 

Shrouding his glory in a tearfid veil ; 

The misty air is silent, as in dread, 

And the dim sky with shadowy gloom o'ersprcad ; 

While saints and martyrs, sphits of the blest, 

Look down, all weeping, from their bowers of rest. 

In that dread moment, to the fatal pile 
The regal victim came ; and raised the while 
His patient glance, with such an aspect high, 
So firm, so calm, in holy majesty, 
That e'en th' assassins' hearts a moment shook 
Before the grandeur of that kingly look ; 
And a strange thrill of pity, half-rencw'd, 
Ran through the bosoms of the multitude. 

Like Him, who, breathing mercy to the last, 
Pray'd till the bitterness of death was past — 
E'en for his murderers pray'd, in that dark hour 
When his soul yielded to affliction's power, 
And the winds bore his dying ciy abroad — 
"Hast thou forsaken me, my God ! my God?" — 
E'en thus the monarch stood ; his prayer arose, 
Thus calling down forgiveness on his foes — 
" To Thee my spirit I commend," he cried ; 
" And my lost people, Father ! be then- guide ! " 

But the sharp steel descends — the blow is given, 
And answer'd by a thunder-peal from heaven ; 
Earth, stain'd with blood, convulsive terrors owns, 
And her kings tremble on their distant thrones ! 



THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIERI. 

The Alcestis of Alfieri is said to have been the 
last tragedy he composed, and is distinguished to 
a remarkable degree by that tenderness of which 



his former works present so few examples. It 
would appear as if the pure and exalted affection 
by which the impetuosity of his fiery spirit was 
ameliorated during the latter years of his life, had 
impressed its whole character on this work, as a 
record of that domestic happiness in whose bosom 
his hcai*t at length found a resting-place. Most 
of his earlier writings bear witness to that " fever 
at the core," that burning impatience of restraint, 
and those incessant and untameable aspirations 
after a wider sphere of action, by which his youth 
was consumed; but the poetry of Alcestis must 
find its echo in every heart which has known the 
power of domestic ties, or felt the bitterness of 
their dissolution. The interest of the piece, how- 
ever, though entirely domestic, is not for a mo- 
ment allowed to languish; nor does the conjugal 
affection, which forms the mainspring of the 
action, ever degenerate into the pastoral insipidity 
of Metastaaio. The character of Alcestis herself, 
with all its lofty fortitude, heroic affection, and 
subdued anguish, powerfully recalls to our ima- 
gination the calm and tempered majesty distin- 
guishing the masterpieces of Greek sculpture, in 
which the expression of mental or bodily suffering 
is never allowed to transgress the limits of beauty 
and sublimity. The union of dignity and afflic- 
tion impressing more than earthly grandeur on 
the countenance of Niobe, would be, perhaps, the 
best illustration of this analogy. 

The following scene, in which Alcestis announces 
to Pheres, the father of Admetus, the terms upon 
which the oracle of Delphos has declared that his 
son may be restored, has seldom been surpassed 
by the author, even in his most celebrated pro- 
ductions. It is, however, to be feared that little 
of its beauty can be transfused into a translation, 
as the severity of a style so completely devoid of 
imagery, must render it dependent for many in- 
communicable attractions upon the melody of the 
original language. 



ACT I.— Scene II. 

Alcestis, Pheres. 

Ale. Weep thou no more ! monarch, dry thy 
tears ! 
For know, he shall not die ; not now shall fate 
Bereave thee of thy son. 

Phe. What mean thy words ? 
Hath then Apollo — is there then a hope 1 
Ale. Yes ! hope for thee — hope by the voice 
announced 



122 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



From the prophetic cave. Nor would I yield 
To other lips the tidings, meet alone 
For thee to hear from mine. 

Phe. But say ! oh ! say, 
Shall then my son be spared ] 

Ale. He shall, to thee. 
Thus hath Apollo said — Alcestis thus 
Confirms the oracle — be thou secure. 

Phe. sounds of joy ! He lives ! 

Ale. But not for this, 
Think not that e'en for this the stranger Joy 
Shall yet revisit these devoted walls. [death 

Phe. Can there be grief when from his bed of 
Admetus rises 1 What deep mystery lurks 
Within thy words ] What mean'st thou ] Gracious 

heaven ! 
Thou, whose deep love is all his own, who hear st 
The tidings of his safety, and dost bear 
Transport and life in that glad oracle 
To his despairing sire ; thy cheek is tinged 
With death, and on thy pure ingenuous brow, 
To the brief lightning of a sudden joy, 
Shades dark as night succeed, and thou art wrapt 
In troubled silence. Speak ! oh, speak ! 

Ale. The gods 
Themselves have limitations to their power 
Impassable, eternal — and their will 
Resists not the tremendous laws of fate : 
Nor small the boon they grant thee in the life 
Of thy restored Admetus. 

Phe. In thy looks 
There is expression, more than in thy words, 
Which thrills my shuddering heart. Declare, what 

terms 
Can render fatal to thyself and us 
The rescued life of him thy soul adores 1 

Ale. father ! could my silence aught avail 
To keep that fearful secret from thine ear, 
Still should it rest unheard, till all fulfill'd 
Were the dread sacrifice. But vain the wish ; 
And since too soon, too well it must be known, 
Hear it from me. 

Phe. Throughout my curdling veins 
Runs a cold, deathlike horror ; and I feel 
I am not all a father. In my heart 
Strive many deep affections. Thee I love, 
fair and high-soul'd consort of my son ! 
More than a daughter ; and thine infant race, 
The cherish'd hope and glory of my age ; 
And, unimpair'd by time, within my breast, 
High, holy, and unalterable love 
For her, the partner of my cares and joys, 
Dwells pure and perfect yet. Bethink thee, then, 
In what suspense, what agony of fear, 



I wait thy words ; for well, too well, 1 see 
Thy lips are fraught with fatal auguries, 
To some one of my race. 

Ale. Death hath his rights, 
Of which not e'en the great Supernal Powers 
May hope to rob him. By his ruthless hand, 
Already seized, the noble victim lay, 
The heir of empire, in his glowing prime 
And noonday, struck : — Admetus, the revered, 
The bless'd, the loved, by all who own'd his sway — 
By his illustrious parents, by the realms 
Surrounding his — and oh ! what need to add, 
How much by his Alcestis 1 — Such was he, 
Already in th' unsparing grasp of death 
Withering, a certain prey. Apollo thence 
Hath snatch'd him, and another in his stead, 
Though not an equal — (who can equal him 1) 
Must fall a voluntary sacrifice. 
Another, of his lineage or to him 
By closest bonds united, must descend 
To the dark realm of Orcus in his place, 
Who thus alone is saved. 

Phe. What do I hear 1 
Woe to us, woe ! — what victim 1 — who shall be 
Accepted in his stead 1 

Ale. The dread exchange 
E'en now, father ! hath been made ; the prey 
Is ready, nor is wholly worthless him 
For whom 'tis freely offer'd. Nor wilt thou, 
mighty goddess of th' infernal shades ! 
Whose image sanctifies this threshold floor, 
Disdain the victim. 

Phe. All prepared the prey ! 
And to our blood allied ! Oh, heaven ! — and yet 
Thou bad'st me weep no more ! 

Ale. Yes ! thus I said, 
And thus again I say, thou shalt not weep 
Thy son's, nor I deplore my husband's doom. 
Let him be saved, and other sounds of woe 
Less deep, less mournful far, shall here be heard, 
Than those his death had caused. — With some few 

tears, 
But grief, and mingled with a gleam of joy, 
E'en while the involuntary tribute lasts, 
The victim shall be honour 'd who resign'd 
Life for Admetus. — Would' st thou know the prey, 
The vow'd, the willing, the devoted one, 
Offer'd and hallow'd to th' infernal gods, 
Father !— 'tis I. 

Phe. What hast thou done 1 Oh, heaven ! [saved 
What hast thou done? And think'st thou he is 
By such a compact 1 Think'st thou he can live 
Bereft of thee 1 — Of thee, his light of life, 
His very soul ! — Of thee, beloved far more 



THE ALCESTIS OF ALFIEPJ. 



123 



Than his loved parents — than his children more — 

More than himself] Oh no ! it shall not be] 

Thou perish, Alcestis ! in the flower 

Of thy young beauty ! — perish, and destroy 

Not him, not him alone, but us, but all, 

Who as a child adore thee ! Desolate 

Would be the throne, the kingdom, reft of thee. 

And think'st thou not of those whose tender years 

Demand thy care ] — thy children ! think of them ! 

thou, the source of each domestic joy, 

Thou, in whose life alone Admetus lives, 

His glory, his delight, thou shalt not die 

While I can die for thee ! Me, me alone, 

The oracle demands — a wither'd stem, 

Whose task, whose duty, is for him to die. 

My race is ran — the fulness of my years, 

The faded hopes of age, and all the love 

Which hath its dwelling in a father's heart, 

And the fond pity, half with wonder blent, 

Inspired by thee, whose youth with heavenly gifts 

So richly is endow'd ; — all, all imite 

To grave in adamant the just decree, 

That I must die. But thou, I bid thee live ! 

Pheres commands thee, Alcestis — live ! 

Ne'er, ne'er shall woman's youthful love surpass 

An aged sire's devotedness. 

Ale. I know 
Thy lofty soul, thy fond paternal love ; 
Pheres, I know them well, and not in vain 
Strove to anticipate their high resolves. 
But if in silence I have heard thy words, 
Now calmly list to mine, and thou shalt own 
They may not be withstood. 

Phe. What canst thou say 
Which I should hear ? I go, resolved to save 
Him who wath thee would perish ; — to the shrine 
E'en now I fly. 

Ale. Stay, stay thee ! 'tis too late. 
Already hath consenting Proserpine, 
From the remote abysses of her realms, 
Heard and accepted the terrific vow 
Which binds me, with indissoluble ties, 
To death. And I am firm, and well I know 
None can deprive me of the awful right 
That vow hath won. 

Yes ! thou mayst weep my fate, 
Mourn for me, father ! but thou canst not blame 
My lofty purpose. Oh ! the more endear'd 
My life by every tie — the more I feel 
Death's bitterness, the more my sacrifice 
Is worthy of Admetus. I descend 
To the dim shadowy regions of the dead 
A guest more honour'd. 



In thy presence here 
Again I utter'd the tremendous vow, 
Now more than half fulfill'd. I feel, I know, 
Its dread effects. Through all my burning veins 
Th' insatiate fever revels. Doubt is o'er. 
The Monarch of the Dead hath heard — he calls, 
He summons me away — and thou art saved, 

my Admetus ! 

In the opening of the third act, Alcestis enters, 
with her son Eumeles, and her daughter, to com- 
plete the sacrifice by dying at the feet of Proser- 
pine's statue. The following scene ensues be- 
tween her and Admetus. 

Ale. Here, my faithful handmaids! at the feet 
Of Proserpine's dread image spread my couch ; 
For I myself e'en now must offer here 
The victim she requires. And you, meanwhile, 
My children ! seek your sire. Behold him there, 
Sad, silent, and alone. But through his veins 
Health's genial current flows once more, as free 
As in his brightest days: and he shall live — 
Shall live for you. Go, hang upon his neck, 
And with your innocent encircling arms 
Twine round him fondly. 

Eum. Can it be indeed, 
Father, loved father ! that we see thee thus 
Restored] What joy is ours ! 

A dm. There is no joy ! 
Speak not of joy ! Away, away ! my grief 
Is wild and desperate. Cling to me no more ! 

1 know not of affection, and I feel 
No more a father. 

Eum. Oh ! what w r ords are these ] 
Are we no more thy children ] Are we not 
Thine own] Sweet sister! twine around his neck 
More close ; he must return the fond embrace. 

Adm. children ! my children ! to my soul 
Your innocent words and kisses are as darts, 
That pierce it to the quick. I can no more 
Sustain the bitter conflict. Every sound 
Of your soft accents but too well recalls 
The voice which was the music of my life. 
Alcestis ! my Alcestis ! — was she not 
Of all her sex the flower ] Was woman e*er 
Adored like her before ] Yet this is she, 
The cold of heart, th' ungrateful, who hath left 
Her husband and her infants ! This is she, 

my deserted children ! who at once 
Bereaves you of your parents. 

Ale. Woe is me ! 

1 hear the bitter and reproachful cries 

Of my despairing lord. With life's last powers, 



124 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



Oil ! let me strive to soothe him still. Approach, 
My handmaids, raise me, and support my steps 
To the distracted mourner. Bear me hence, 
That he may hear and see me. 

Adm. Is it thou? 
And do I see thee still 1 and com'st thou thus 
To comfort me, Alcestis 1 Must I hear 
The dying accents thus ? Alas ! return 
To thy sad couch — return ! 'tis meet for me 
There by thy side for ever to remain. 

Ale. For me thy care is vain. Though meet for 
thee [are these, 

Adm. voice ! looks of death ! are these, 
Thus darkly shrouded with mortality, 
The eyes that were the sunbeams and the life 
Of my fond soul 1 Alas ! how faint a ray 
Falls from their faded orbs, so brilliant once, 
Upon my drooping brow ! How heavily, 
With what a weight of death thy languid voice 
Sinks on my heart ! too faithful far, too fond. 
Alcestis ! thou art dying — and for me ! 

Alcestis ! and thy feeble hand supports 

With its last power, supports my sinking head, 

E'en now, while death is on thee ! Oh! the touch 

Rekindles tenfold frenzy in my heart. 

I rush, I fly impetuous to the shrine, 

The image of yon ruthless Deity, 

Impatient for her prey. Before thy death, 

There, there, I too, self-sacrificed, will fall. 

Vain is each obstacle — in vain the gods 
Themselves would check my fury. I am lord 

Of my own days — and thus I swear 

Ale. Yes! swear, 
Admetus ! for thy children to sustain 
The load of life. All other impious vows, 
Which thou, a rebel to the sovereign will 
Of those who rule on high, mightst dare to form 
Within thy breast, thy lip, by them enchain' d, 
Would vainly seek to utter. Seest thou not, 
It is from them the inspiration flows 
Which in my language breathes ? They lend me 
power, [fuse 

They bid me through thy strengthen'd soul trans- 
High courage, noble constancy. Submit, 
Bow down to them thy spirit. Be thou calm; 
Be near me. Aid me. In the dread extreme 
To which I now approach, from whom but thee 
Should comfort be derived 1 ? Afflict me not, 
In such an hour, with anguish worse than death. 
faithful and beloved, support me still ! 

The choruses with which this tragedy is inter- 



spersed are distinguished for their melody and 
classic beauty. The following translation will give 
our readers a faint idea of the one by which the 
third act is concluded. 

Ale. My children ! all is finish'd. Now, farewell ! 
To thy fond care, Pheres ! I commit 
My widow'd lord : forsake him not. 

Eum. Alas ! 
Sweet mother ! wilt thou leave us 1 From thy side 
Are we for ever parted ] 

Phe. Tears forbid 
All utterance of our woes. Bereft of sense, 
More lifeless than the dying victim, see 
The desolate Admetus. Farther yet, 
Still farther, let us bear him from the sight 
Of his Alcestis. 

Ale. my handmaids ! still 
Lend me your pious aid, and thus compose 
With sacred modesty these torpid limbs 
When death's last pang is o'er. 

Cltorus. 

Alas ! how weak 
Her struggling voice ! that last keen pang is near. 

Peace, mourners, peace ! 
Be hush'd, be silent, in this hour of dread ! 

Our cries would but increase 
The sufferer's pang ; let tears unheard be shed, 

Cease, voice of weeping, cease ! 

Sustain, friend ! 

Upon thy faithful breast, 
The head that sinks with mortal pain opprest I 

And thou assistance lend 

To close the languid eye, 
Still beautiful in life's last agony. 

Alas, how long a strife ! 
What anguish struggles in the parting breath, 

Ere yet immortal life 

Be won by death ! 
Death ! death ! thy work complete ! 
Let thy sad hour be fleet, 
Speed, in thy mercy, the releasing sigh ! 

No more keen pangs impart 

To her, the high in heart, 
Th' adored Alcestis, worthy ne'er to die. 

Chorus of Admetus. 

'Tis not enough, oh no ! 
To hide the scene of anguish from his eyes ; 

Still must our silent band 

Around him watchful stand, 
And on the mourner ceaseless care bestow, 
That his ear catch not grief's funereal cries. 



IL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA. 



125 



Yet, yet hope is not dead, 

All is not lost below, 
While yet the gods have pity on our woe. 

Oft when all joy is fled, 

Heaven lends support to those 
Who on its care in pious hope repose. 

Then to the blessed skies 
Let our submissive prayers in chorus rise. 

Pray ! bow the knee, and pray ! 
What other task have mortals, born to tears, 
Whom fate controls with adamantine sway I 

ruler of the spheres ! 
Jove ! Jove ! enthroned immortally on high, 

Our supplication hear ! 

Nor plunge in bitterest woes 
Him, who nor footstep moves, nor lifts his eye 

But as a child, which only knows; 

Its father to revere. 



IL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA ; 

A TRAGEDY. 

BY ALESSANDRO MA.YZOXI. 

Francesco Bussone, the son of a peasant in 
Carmagnola, from whence liis nom-de-gucrre was 
derived, was born in the year 1390. Whilst yet a 
boy, and employed in the care of flocks and herds, 
the lofty character of his countenance was observed 
by a soldier of fortune, who invited the youth to 
forsake his rustic occupations, and accompany him 
to the busier scenes of the camp. His persuasions 
were successful, and Francesco entered with him 
into the service of Facino Cane, Lord of Alessan- 
dria. At the time when Facino died, leaving 
fourteen cities acquired by conquest to Beatrice 
di Tenda, his wife, Francesco di Carmagnola was 
amongst the most distinguished of his captains. 
Beatrice afterwards marrying Philip Visconti, Duke 
of Milan, (who rewarded her by an ignominious 
death for the regal dowery she had conferred upon 
him,) Carmagnola entered his army at the same 
time; and having, by his eminent services, firmly 
established the tottering power of that prince, 
received from him the title of Count, and was 
placed at the head of all his forces. The natural 
caprice and ingratitude of Philip's disposition, 
however, at length prevailed; and Carmagnola, 
disgusted with the evident proof of his wavering 
friendship and doubtful faith, left his service and 
his territories, and after a variety of adventures 



took refuge in Venice. Thither the treachery of 
the Duke pursued him, and emissaries were 
employed to procure his assassination. The plot, 
however, proved abortive, and Carmagnola was 
elected captain-general of the Venetian armies, 
during the league formed by that republic against 
the Duke of Milan. The war was at first carried 
on with much spirit and success, and the battle 
of Maclodio, gained by Carmagnola, was one of 
the most important and decisive actions of those 
times. The night after the combat, the victorious 
soldiers gave liberty to almost all their prisoners. 
The Venetian envoys having made a complaint 
on this subject to the Count, he inquired what 
was become of the captives ; and upon being in- 
formed that all, except four hundred, had been 
set free, he gave orders that the remaining ones 
also should be released immediately, according to 
the custom which prevailed amongst the ai'mies 
of those days, the object of which was to prevent 
a speedy termination of the war. This proceed- 
ing of Carmagnola's occasioned much distrust and 
irritation in the minds of the Venetian rulers; 
and their displeasure was increased when the 
armada of the Republic, commanded by II Trevi- 
sani, was defeated upon the Po, without any 
attempt in its favour having been made by the 
Count. The failure of their attempt upon Cre- 
mona was also imputed to him as a crime ; and 
the Senate, resolving to free themselves from a 
powerful chief, now become an object of suspi- 
cion, after many deliberations on the best method 
of carrying their designs into effect, at length 
determined to invite him to Venice, under pre- 
tence of consulting him on their negotiations for 
peace. He obeyed their summons without hesi- 
tation or mistrust, and was every where received 
with extraordinary honours during the course of 
his journey. On his arrival at Venice, and before 
he entered his own house, eight gentlemen were 
sent to meet him, by whom he was escorted to 
St Mark's Place. WTien he was introduced into 
the ducal palace, his attendants were dismissed, 
and informed that he would be in private with 
the Doge for a considerable time. He was 
arrested in the palace, then examined by the 
Secret Council, put to the torture, which a wound 
he had received in the service of the Republic 
rendered still more agonising, and condemned to 
death. On the 5th May 1432 he was conducted 
to execution, with his mouth gagged, and be- 
headed between the two columns of St Mark's 
Place. With regard to the innocence or guilt 
of this distinguished character, there exists no 



126 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



authentic information. The author of the tragedy, 
which we are about to analyse, has chosen to 
represent him as entirely innocent, and probabi- 
lity at least is on this side. It is possible, that 
the haughtiness of an aspiring warrior, accustomed 
to command, and impatient of control, might 
have been the principal cause of offence to the 
Venetians; or perhaps their jealousy was excited 
by his increasing power over the minds of an 
obedient army; and, not considering it expedient 
to displace him, they resolved upon his destruc- 
tion. 

This tragedy, which is formed upon the model 
of the English and German drama, comprises the 
history of Carmagnola's life, from the day on 
which he was made commander of the Venetian 
armies to that of his execution, thus embracing 
a period of about seven years. The extracts we 
are about to present to our readers, will enable 
them to form their own opinion of a piece which 
has excited so much attention in Italy. The first 
act opens in Venice, in the hall of the Senate. 
The Doge proposes that the Count di Carmagnola 
should be consulted on the projected league be- 
tween the Republic and the Florentines, against 
the Duke of Milan. To this all agree ; and the 
Count is introduced. He begins by justifying 
his conduct from the imputations to which it 
might be liable, in consequence of his appearing 
as the enemy of the Prince whom he had so 
recently served : — 

He cast me down 

From the high place my blood had dearly won; 

And when I sought his presence, to appeal 

For justice there, 'twas vain ! My foes had form'd 

Around his throne a barrier : e'en my life 

Became the mark of hatred ; but in this 

Their hopes have fail'd — I gave them not the time. 

My life ! — I stand prepared to yield it up 

On the proud field, and in some noble cause 

For glory well exchanged ; but not a prey, 

Not to be caught ignobly in the toils 

Of those I scorn. I left him, and obtain'd 

With you a place of refuge ; yet e'en here 

His snares were cast around me. Now all ties 

Are broke between us; to an open foe, 

An open foe I come. 

He then gives counsel in favour of war, and 
retires, leaving the Senate engaged in delibera- 
tion. War is resolved upon, and he is elected 
commander. The fourth scene represents the 
house of Carmagnola. His soliloquy is noble; 



but its character is much more that of English 
than of Italian poetry, and may be traced, with- 
out difficulty, to the celebrated monologue of 
Hamlet. 

A leader — or a fugitive 1 To drag 

Slow years along in idle vacancy, 

As a worn veteran living on the fame 

Of former deeds — to offer humble prayers 

And blessings for protection — owing all 

Yet left me of existence to the might 

Of other swords, dependent on some arm 

Which soon may cast me off; or on the field 

To breathe once more, to feel the tide of life 

Rush proudly through my veins — to hail again 

My lofty star, and at the trumpet's voice 

To wake ! to rule ! to conquer ! — Which must be 

My fate, this hour decides. And yet, if peace 

Should be the choice of Venice, shall I cling 

Still poorly to ignoble safety here, 

Secluded as a homicide, who cowers 

Within a temple's precincts ?• Shall not he 

Who made a kingdom's fate, control his own ! 

Is there not one among the many lords 

Of this divided Italy — not one 

With soul enough to envy that bright crown 

Encircling Philip's head 1 And know they not 

'Twas won by me from many a tyrant's grasp, 

Snatch'd by my hand, and placed upon the brow 

Of that ingrate, from whom my spirit burns 

Again to wrest it, and bestow the prize 

On him who best shall call the prowess forth 

Which slumbers in my arm ? 

Marco, a senator, and a friend of the Count, 
now arrives, and announces to him that war is 
resolved upon, and that he is appointed to the 
command of the armies, at the same time advis- 
ing him to act with caution towards his enemies 
in the Republic. 

Car. Think'st thou I know not whom to deem 
my foes 1 
Ay, I could number all. 

Mar. And know'st thou, too, [art 

What fault hath made them such 1 ? 'Tis that thou 
So high above them : 'tis that thy disdain 
Doth meet them undisguised. As yet not one 
Hath done thee wrong; but who, when so resolved, 
Finds not his time to injure 1 In thy thoughts, 
Save when they cross thy path, no place is theirs; 
But they remember thee. The high in soul 
Scorn and forget ; but to the grovelling heart 
There is delight in hatred. Rouse it not ; 



IL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA. 



127 



Subdue it, while the power is yet thine owu. 
I counsel no vile arts, from which my soul 
Revolts indignantly — thou know'st it well : 
But there is yet a wisdom, not unmeet 
For the most lofty nature, — there is power 
Of winning meaner minds, without descent 
From the high spirit's glorious eminence, — 
And would'st thou seek that magic, it were thine. 

The first scene of the second act represents 
part of the Duke of Milan's camp near Maclodio. 
Malatesti, the commander-in-chief, and Pergola, a 
Condottiere of great distinction, are deliberating 
upon the state of the war. Pergola considers it 
imprudent to give battle, Malatesti is of a con- 
trary opinion. They are joined by Sforza and 
Fortebraccio, who are impatient for action, and 
Torello, who endeavours to convince them of its 
inexpediency. 

Sfo. Torello, didst thou mark the ardent soul 
Which fires each soldier's eye ] 

Tor. I mark'd it well. 
I heard th' impatient shout, th' exulting voice 
Of Hope and Courage ; and I turn'd aside, 
That on my brow the warrior might not read 
Th' involuntary thought whose sudden gloom 
Had cast deep shadows there. It was a thought, 
That this vain semblance of delusive joy 
Soon like a dream shall fade. It was a thought 
On wasted valour doom'd to perish here. 

For these — what boots it to disguise the truth? — 
These are no wars in which, for all things loved, 
And precious, and revered — for all the ties 
Clinging around the heart — for those whose smile 
Makes home so lovely — for his native land, 
And for its laws, the patriot soldier fights ! 
These are no wars in which the chieftain's aim 
Is but to station his devoted bands, 
And theirs, thus fix'd — to die ! It is our fate 
To lead a hireling train, whose spirits breathe 
Fury, not fortitude. With burning hearts 
They rush where Victory, smiling, waves them on ; 
But if delay'd, if between flight and death 
Pausing they stand — is there no cause to doubt 
What choice were theirs 1 And but too well our 

hearts 
That choice might here foresee. Oh ! evil times, 
When for the leader care augments, the more 
Bright glory fades away ! Yet once again, 
This is no field for us. 

After various debates, Malatesti resolves to 



attack the enemy. The fourth and fifth scenes 
of the second act represent the tent of the Count 
in the Venetian camp, and his preparations for 
battle. And here a magnificent piece of lyric 
poetry is introduced, in which the battle is de- 
scribed, and its fatal effects lamented with all the 
feeling of a patriot and a Christian. It appears 
to us, however, that this ode, hymn, or chorus as 
the author has entitled it, striking as its effect 
may be in a separate recitation, produces a much 
less powerful impression in the situation it occu- 
pies at present. It is even necessary, in order to 
appreciate its singular beauty, that it should be 
re-perused, as a thing detached from the tragedy. 
The transition is too violent, in our opinion, from 
a tragic action, in which the characters are repre- 
sented as clothed with existence, and passing be- 
fore us with all their contending motives and 
feelings laid open to our inspection, to the com- 
parative coldness of a lyric piece, where the 
author's imagination expatiates alone. The poet 
may have been led into this error by a definition 
of Schlegcl's, who, speaking of the Greek choruses, 
gives it as his opinion, that " the chorus is to be 
considered as a personification of the moral 
thoughts inspired by the action — as the organ of 
the poet, who speaks in the name of the whole 
human race. The chorus, in short, is the ideal 
spectator." 

But the fact was not exactly thus. The Greek 
chorus was composed of real characters, and ex- 
pressed the sentiments of the people before whose 
eyes the action was imagined to be passing : thus 
the true spectator, after witnessing in represen- 
tation the triumphs or misfortunes of kings and 
heroes, heard from the chorus the idea supposed 
to be entertained on the subject by the more en- 
lightened part of the multitude. If the author, 
availing himself of his talent for lyric poetry, and 
varying the measure in conformity to the subject, 
had brought his chorus into action — introducing, 
for example, a veteran looking down upon the 
battle from an eminence, and describing its vicis- 
situdes to the persons below, with whom he might 
interchange a variety of national and moral reflec- 
tions — it appears to us that the dramatic effect 
would have been considerably heightened, and 
the assertion that the Greek chorus is not com- 
patible with the system of the modem drama 
possibly disapproved. We shall present our 
readers with the entire chorus of which we have 
spoken, as a piece to be read separately, and one 
to which the following title would be much more 
appropriate. 



128 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



The Battle of Maclodio (or Macalo.) An Ode. 

Hark ! from the right bursts forth a trumpet's 

sound, 
A loud shrill trumpet from the left replies ! 
On every side hoarse echoes from the ground 
To the quick tramp of steeds and warriors rise, 
Hollow and deep — and banners, all around, 
Meet hostile banners waving to the skies ; 
Here steel-clad bands in marshall'd order shine, 
And there a host confronts their glittering line. 

Lo ! half the field already from the sight 
Hath vanish'd, hid by closing groups of foes ! 
Swords crossing swords flash lightning o'er the 

fight, 
And the strife deepens and the life-blood flows ! 
Oh ! who are these 1 What stranger in his might 
Comes bursting on the lovely land's repose 1 
What patriot hearts have nobly vow'd to save 
Their native soil, or make its dust their grave ? 

One race, alas ! these foes — one kindred race, 
Were born and rear'd the same fair scenes among! 
The stranger calls them brothers — and each face 
That brotherhood reveals ; — one common tongue 
Dwells on their lips — the earth on which we trace 
Their heart's blood is the soil from whence they 

sprung. 
One mother gave them birth — this chosen land, 
Circled with Alps and seas by Nature's guardian 

hand. 

Oh, grief and horror ! who the first could dare 
Against a brother's breast the sword to wield ?- 
What cause unhallow'd and accursed, declare, 
Hath bathed with carnage this ignoble field 1 
Think'st thou they know 1 — they but inflict and 

share 
Misery and death, the motive unreveal'd ! 
— Sold to a leader, sold himself to die, 
With him they strive — they fall — and ask not 

why. 

But are there none who love them 1 Have they 

none — ■ 
No wives, no mothers, who might rush between, 
And win with tears the husband and the son 
Back to his home, from this polluted scene 1 
And they whose hearts, when life's bright day is 

done, 
Unfold to thoughts more solemn and serene, 
Thoughts of the tomb — why cannot they assuage 
The storms of passion with the voice of age ? 



Ask not ! — the peasant at his cabin-door 
Sits calmly pointing to the distant cloud 
Which skirts th' horizon, menacing to pour 
Destruction down o'er fields he hath not plough'd. 
Thus, where no echo of the battle's roar 
Is heard afar, even thus the reckless crowd 
In tranquil safety number o'er the slain, 
Or tell of cities burning on the plain. 

There mayst thou mark the boy, with earnest gaze 
Fix'd on his mother's lips, intent to know, 
By names of insult, those whom future days 
Shall see him meet in arms, their deadliest foe. 
There proudly many a glittering dame displays 
Bracelet and zone, with radiant gems that glow, 
By lovers, husbands, home in triumph borne, 
From the sad brides of fallen warriors torn. 

Woe to the victors and the vanquish'd ! woe ! 
The earth is heap'd, is loaded with the slain ; 
Loud and more loud the cries of fury grow — 
A sea of blood is swelling o'er the plain. 
But from th' embattled front, already, lo ! 
A band recedes — it flies — all hope is vain, 
And venal hearts, despairing of the strife, 
Wake to the love, the clinging love of life. 

As the light grain disperses in the air, 
Borne from the winnowing by the gales around, 
Thus fly the vanquish'd in their wild despair, 
Chased, sever'd, scatter'd, o'er the ample ground. 
But mightier bands, that lay in ambush there, 
Burst on their flight; andhark ! the deepening sound 
Of fierce pursuit !— still nearer and more near, 
The rush of war-steeds trampling in the rear. 

The day is won ! They fall — disarm'd they yield, 
Low at the conqueror's feet all suppliant lying ! 
Midst shouts of victory pealing o'er the field, 
Ah ! who may hear the murmurs of the dying 1 
Haste ! let the tale of triumph be reveal'd ! 
E'en now the courier to his steed is flying, 
He spurs — he speeds — with tidings of the day, 
To rouse up cities in his lightning way. 

Why pour ye forth from your deserted homes, 
eager multitudes ! around him pressing 1 
Each hurrying where his breathless courser foams, 
Each tongue, each eye, infatuate hope confessing ! 
Know ye not whence th' ill-omen'd herald comes, 
And dare ye dream he comes with words of bless- 
ing?— 
Brothers, by brothers slain, he low and cold, — 
Be ye content ! the glorious tale is told. 



IL CONTE DI CARMAGNOLA. 



129 



I hear the voice of joy, th' exulting cry ! 
They deck the shrine, they swell the choral strains : 
E'en now the homicides assail the sky 
"With paeans, which indignant heaven disdains ! 
But from the soaring Alps the stranger's eye 
Looks watchful down on our ensanguined plains, 
And, with the cruel rapture of a foe, 
Numbers the mighty, stretch'd in death below. 

Haste ! form your lines again, ye brave and true ! 
Haste, haste ! your triumphs and your joys sus- 
pending. 
Th' invader comes : your banners raise anew, 
Rush to the strife, your country's call attending ! 
Victors ! why pause ye 1 — Are ye weak and few? — 
Ay ! such he deem'd you, and for this descending, 
He waits you on the field ye know too well, 
The same red war-field where your brethren fell 

thou devoted land ! that canst not rear 
In peace thine offspring ; thou, the lost and won, 
The fair and fatal soil, that dost appear 
Too narrow still for each contending son ; 
Receive the stranger, in his fierce career 
Parting thy spoils ! Thy chastening is begun ! 
And, wresting from thy kings the guardian sword, 
Foes whom thou ne'er hadst wrong'd sit proudly 
at thy board. 

Are these infatuate too ! — Oh ! who hath known 
A people e'er by guilt's vain triumph blest ? 
The wrong'd, the vanquish'd, suffer not alone, 
Brief is that joy that swells th' oppressor's breast. 
What though not yet his day of pride be flown, 
Though yet heaven's vengeance spare his haughty 

crest, 
Well hath it mark'd him — and decreed the hour, 
When his last sigh shall own the terror of its power. 

Are we not creatures of one hand divine, 
Form'd in one mould, to one redemption born 1 
Kindred alike where'er our skies may shine, 
Where'er our sight first di^ank the vital morn 1 
Brothers ! one bond around our souls should twine, 
And woe to him by whom that bond is torn ! 
Who mounts by trampling broken hearts to earth, 
Who bows down spirits of immortal birth ! 

The third act, which passes entirely in the tent 
of the Count, is composed of long discourses be- 
tween Carmagnola and the Venetian envoys. One 
of these requires him to pursue the fugitives after 
his victory, which he haughtily refuses to do, 
declaring that he will not leave the field until he 



has gained possession of the surrounding fortresses. 
Another complains that the Condottieri and the 
soldiers have released their prisoners, to which 
he replies, that it is an established military cus- 
tom ; and, sending for the remaining four hundred 
captives, he gives them their liberty also. This 
act, which terminates with the suspicious observa- 
tions of the envoys on Carmagnola's conduct, is 
rather barren of interest, though the episode of 
the younger Pergola, which we shall lay before 
our readers, is happily imagined. 

As the prisoners are departing, the Count ob- 
serves the younger Pergola, and stops him. 

Car. Thou art not, youth ! 
One to be number'd with the vulgar crowd. 
Thy garb, and more, thy towering mien, would speak 
Of nobler parentage. Yet with the rest 
Thou minglest, and art silent ! 

Per. Silence best, 

chief ! befits the vanquish'd. 
Car. Bearing up 

Against thy fate thus proudly, thou art proved 
Worthy a better star. Thy name ? 

Per. 'Tis one 
Whose heritage doth impose no common task 
On him that bears it ; one which to adorn 
With brighter blazonry were hard emprise : 
My name is Pergola. 

Car. And art thou, then, 
That warrior's son ] 

Per. I am. 

Car. Approach ! embrace 
Thy father's early friend ! What thou art now 

1 was when first we met. Oh ! thou dost bring 
Back on my heart remembrance of the days, 
The young, and joyous, and adventurous days, 
Of hope and ardour. And despond not thou ! 
My dawn, 'tis true, with brighter omens smiled, 
But still fair Fortune's glorious promises 

Are for the brave ; and, though delayed awhile, 
She soon or late fulfils them. Youth ! salute 
Thy sire for me ; and say, though not of thee 
I ask'd it, yet my heart is well assured 
He counsell'd not this battle. 

Per. Oh ! he gave 
Far other counsels, but his fruitless words 
Were spoken to the winds. 

Car. Lament thou not. 
Upon his chieftain's head the shame will rest 
Of this defeat ; and he who firmly stood 
Fix'd at his post of peril hath begun 
A soldier's race full nobly. Follow me, 
I will restore thy sword. 



130 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



The fourth act is occupied by the machinations 
of the Count's enemies at Venice ; and the jealous 
and complicated policy of that Republic, and the 
despotic authority of the Council of Ten, are skil- 
fully developed in many of the scenes. 

The first scene of the fifth act opens at Venice 
in the hall of the Council of Ten. Carmagnola is 
consulted by the Doge on the terms of peace 
offered by the Duke of Milan. His advice is re- 
ceived with disdain, and, after various insults, he 
is accused of treason. His astonishment and in- 
dignation at this unexpected charge are expi'essed 
with all the warmth and simplicity of innocence. 

Car. A traitor ! I ! — that name of infamy 
Reaches not me. Let him the title bear 
Who best deserves such meed — it is not mine. 
Call me a dupe, and I may well submit, 
For such my part is here ; yet would I not 
Exchange that name, for 'tis the worthiest still. 
A traitor ! — I retrace in thought the time 
When for your cause I fought ; 'tis all one path 
Strew'd o'er with flowers. Point out the day on 

which 
A traitor's deeds were mine ; the day which pass'd 
Unmark'd by thanks, and praise, and promises 
Of high reward ! What more ? Behold me here ! 
And when I came to seeming honour call'd, 
When in my heart most deeply spoke the voice 
Of love, and grateful zeal, and trusting faith — 
Of trusting faith !— Oh, no ! Doth he who comes 
Th' invited guest of friendship dream of faith ] 
I came to be ensnared ! Well ! it is done, 
And be it so ! but since deceitful hate 
Hath thrown at length her smiling mask aside, 
Praise be to heaven ! an open field at least 
Is spread before us. Now 'tis yours to speak, 
Mine to defend my cause ; declare ye then 
My treasons ! 

Doge. By the secret college soon 
All shall be told thee. 

Car. I appeal not there. 
What I have done for you hath all been done 
In the bright noonday, and its tale shall not 
Be told in darkness. Of a warrior's deeds 
Warriors alone should judge ; and such I choose 
To be min e arbiters — my proud defence 
Shall not be made in secret. All shall hear. 

Doge. The time for choice is past. 

Car. What ! Is there force 
Employ 'd against me 1 — Guards! {raisinghis voice) 

Doge. They are not nigh. 
Soldiers ! {enter armed men.) Thy guards are these. 

Car. I am betrayed ! 



Doge. 'Twas then a thought of wisdom to disperse 
Thy followers. Well and justly was it deem'd 
That the bold traitor, in his plots surprised, 
Might prove a rebel too. 

Car. E'en as ye list. 
Now be it yours to charge me. 

Doge. Bear him hence, 
Before the secret college. 

Car. Hear me yet 
One moment first. That ye have doom'd my death 
I well perceive ; but with that death ye doom 
Your own eternal shame. Far o'er these towers, 
Beyond its ancient bounds, majestic floats 
The banner of the Lion, in its pride 
Of conquering power, and well doth Europe know 
I bore it thus to empire. Here, 'tis true, 
No voice will speak men's thoughts; but far beyond 
The limits of your sway, in other scenes, 
Where that still, speechless terror hath not reach'd, 
Which is your sceptre's attribute, my deeds 
And your reward will live in chronicles 
For ever to endure. Yet, yet, respect 
Your annals, and the future ! Ye will need 
A warrior soon, and who will then be yours 1 
Forget not, though your captive now I stand, 
I was not bom your subject. No ! my birth 
Was midst a warlike people, one in soul, 
And watchful o'er its rights, and used to deem 
The honour of each citizen its own. 
Think ye this outrage will be there unheard 1 
There is some treachery here. Our common foes 
Have urged you on to this. Full well ye know 
I have been faithful still. There yet is time. 

Doge. The time is past. When thou didst meditate 
Thy guilt, and in thy pride of heart defy 
Those destined to chastise it; then the hour 
Of foresight should have been. 

Car. mean in soul ! 
And dost thou dare to think a warrior's breast 
For worthless life can tremble 1 Thou shalt soon 
Learn how to die. Go ! When the hour of fate 
On thy vile couch o'ertakes thee, thou wilt meet 
Its summons with far other mien than such 
As I shall bear to ignominious death. 



Scene II. — The House of Carmagnola. 
Antonietta, Matilda. 

Mat. The hours fly fast, the morn is risen, and yet 
My father comes not ! 

Ant. Ah ! thou hast not learn'd, 
By sad experience, with how slow a pace 
Joys ever come ; expected long, and oft 



IL CO NTH DI C\l!M.\i;X()l,A. 



131 



Deceiving expectation ! while the steps 
Of grief o'ertake us ere we dream them nigh. 
But night is past, the long and lingering hours 
Of hope deferr'd are o'er, and those of bliss 
Must soon succeed. A few short moments more, 
And he is with us. E'en from this delay 
I augur well. A council held so long 
Must be to give us peace. He will be ours, 
Perhaps for years our own. 

Mat. mother ! thus 
My hopes too whisper. Nights enough in tears, 
And days in all the sickness of suspense, 
Our anxious love hath pass' A It is full time 
That each sad moment, ut each rumour'd tale, 
Each idle murmur of the people's voice, 
We should not longer tremble, that no more 
This thought should haunt our souls — E'en now, 

perchance, 
He for whom thus your hearts are yearning-— dies ! 

Ant. Oh! fearful thought — but vain and d in- 
fant now ! 
Each joy, my daughter, must be bought with grid". 
Hast thou forgot the day when, proudly led 
In triumph midst the noble and the brave, 
Thy glorious father to the temple bore 
Tho banners won in battle from his foes? 

Mat. A day to be remember'd ! 

Ant. By his side 
Each seem'd inferior. Every breath of air 
Swell'd with his echoing name; and we, the while 
Station'd on high and sever'd from the throng, 
Gazed on that one who drew the gaze of all, 
While, with the tide of rapture half o'crwhelm'd. 
Our hearts beat high, and whisper'd — "We are his." 

Mat. Moments of joy ! 

Ant. What have we done, my child, 
To merit such ] Heaven, for so high a fate, 
Chose us from thousands, and upon thy brow 
Inscribed a lofty name — a name so bright, 
That he to whom thou bear'st the gift, wdiate'er 
His race, may boast it proudly. "What a mark 
For envy is the glory of our lot ! 
And we should weigh its joys against these hours 
Of fear and sorrow. 

Mat. They are past e'en now. [hush'd ! 

Hark ! 'twas the sound of oars ! — it swells — 'tis 
The gates unclose. mother ! I behold 
A warrior clad in mail — he comes, 'tis he ! 

Ant. Whom should it be if not himself] — my 
husband! (She comes forward.) 

(Enter Gonzaga and others.) 

Ant. Gonzaga ! — Where is he we look'd for] 
Where] 



Thou answer'st not ! Oh, heaven ! thy looks aro 

fraught 
W'itli prophecies of woe ! 

(ion. Alas | tOO true 

The omens they reveal ! 

Mat. Of woe to whom ] 

Gon. Oh ! why hath such a task of bitterness 
Fallen to my lot I 

A ut. Thou wouldst be pitiful, 
And thou art cruel. Close this dread suspense; 
Speak ! I adjure thee, in the name of God ! 
Where is my husband < 

Gon. Heaven sustain your souls 
With fortitude to bear the tale ! My chief 

Mat. Is he return'd unto the field .' 

Gon. Alas ! 
Thither the warrior shall return no more. 
The senate's wrath is on him. He is now 
■ >ner ! 

.1 '. He is a prisoner ' and for what? 

Gon. He is accused of treason. 

Mat. Treason ! He 
A traitor !— Oh ! my father ! 

Ant Haste ! pn 
And pause no more. Our hearts are nerved for all 
Say, what shall be his sentence I 

Gon. From my lips 
It shall not be reveal'd. 

Ant. Oh ! he is slain ! 

Gon. He lives, but yet his doom is fix'd. 

Ant. He lives ! 
Weep not, my daughter ! 'tis the time to act. 
For pity's sake, Gonzaga, be thou not 
Wearied of our afflictions. Heaven to thee 
Intrusts the care of two forsaken ones. 
He was thy friend — ah ! haste, then, be our guide ; 
Conduct us to his judges. Come, my child ! 
Poor innocent, come with me. There yet is left 
Mercy upon the earth. Yes ! they themselves 
Are husbands, they are fathers ! When they sign'd 
The fearful sentence, they remember'd not 
Re was a father and a husband too. 
But when their eyes behold the agony [melt : 
One word of theirs hath caused, their hearts will 
They will, they must revoke it. Oh ! the sight 
Of mortal woe is terrible to man ! 
Perhaps the warrior's lofty soul disdain'd 
To vindicate his deeds, or to recall 
His triumphs won for them. It is for us 
To wake each high remembrance. Ah ! we know 
That he implored not, but our knees shall bend, 
And we will pray. 

Gon. Oh, heaven ! that I could leave 
Your hearts one ray of hope ! There is no ear, 



132 



ITALIAN" LITERATURE. 



No place for prayers. The judges here are deaf, 

Implacable, unknown. The thunderbolt 

Falls heavy, and the hand by which 'tis launch'd 

Is veil'd in clouds. There is one comfort still, 

The sole sad comfort of a parting hour, 

I come to bear. Ye may behold him yet. 

The moments fly. Arouse your strength of heart. 

Oh ! fearful is the trial, but the God 

Of mourners will be with you. 

Mat. Is there not 
One hope ? 

Ant. Alas ! my child ! 



Scene IV. — A Prison. 

Carmagnola. 

They must have heard it now. — Oh ! that at least 
I might have died far from them ! Though their 

hearts 
Had bled to hear the tidings, yet the hour, 
The solemn hour of nature's parting pangs 
Had then been past. It meets us darkly now, 
And we must drain its draught of bitterness 
Together, drop by drop. ye wide fields, 
Ye plains of fight, and thrilling sounds of arms ! 

proud delights of danger ! Battle-cries, 
And thou, my war-steed ! and ye trumpet-notes 
Kindling the soul ! Midst your tumultuous joys 
Death seem'd all beautiful. — And must I then, 
With shrinking cold reluctance, to my fate 

Be dragg'd, e'en as a felon, on the winds 
Pouring vain prayers and impotent complaints ? 
And Marco ! hath he not betray'd me too 1 
Vile doubt ! That I could cast it from my soul 
Before I die ! — But no ! What boots it now 
Thus to look back on life with eye that turns 
To linger where my footstep may not tread 1 
Now, Philip ! thou wilt triumph ! Be it so ! 

1 too have proved such vain and impious joys, 
And know their value now. But oh ! again 
To see those loved ones, and to hear the last, 
Last accents of their voices ! By those arms 
Once more to be encircled, and from thence 

To tear myself for ever ! — Hark ! they come ! — 
God of mercy, from thy throne look down 
In pity on their woes ! 



Scene V. 

Antonietta, Matilda, Gonzaga, and 
Carmagnola. 



Ant. My husband 



Mat. my father ! 

Ant. Is it thus 
That thou returnest 1 and is this the hour 
Desired so long ! 

Car. ye afflicted ones ! 
Heaven knows I dread its pangs for you alone. 
Long have my thoughts been used to look on Death, 
And calmly wait his time. For you alone 
My soul hath need of firmness ; will ye, then, 
Deprive me of its aid ? When the Most High 
On virtue pours afflictions, he bestows 
The courage to sustain them. Oh ! let yours 
Equal your sorrows ! Let us yet find joy 
In this embrace : 'tis still a gift of heaven. 
Thou weep'st, my child ! and thou, beloved wife ! 
Ah ! when I made thee mine, thy days flow'd on 
In peace and gladness ; I united thee 
To my disastrous fate, and now the thought 
Embitters death ! Oh ! that I had not seen 
The woes I cause thee ! 

Ant. Husband of my youth ! [bright, 

Of my bright days, thou who didst make them 
Read thou my heart ! the pangs of death are there, 
And yet e'en now — I would not but be thine. 

Car. Full well I know how much I lose in thee ; 
Oh ! make me not too deeply feel it now. 

Mat. The homicides ! 

Car. No, sweet Matilda, no ! 
Let no dark thought of rage or vengeance rise 
To cloud thy gentle spirit, and disturb 
These moments — they are sacred. Yes! my wrongs 
Are deep, but thou, forgive them, and confess, 
That, e'en midst all the fulness of our woe, 
High, holy joy remains. Death ! death ! — our foes, 
Our most relentless foes, can only speed 
Th' inevitable hour. Oh ! man hath not 
Invented death for man ; it would be then 
Madd'ning and insupportable : from heaven 
'Tis sent, and heaven doth temper all its pangs 
With such blest comfort as no mortal power 
Can give or take away. My wife ! my child ! 
Hear my last words — they wring your bosoms now 
With agony, but yet, some future day, 
'Twill soothe you to recall them. Live, my wife ! 
Sustain thy grief, and live ! this ill-starr'd girl 
Must not be reft of all. Fly swiftly hence, 
Conduct her to thy kindred : she is theirs, 
Of their own blood — and they so loved thee once ! 
Then, to their foe united, thou becamest 
Less dear ; for feuds and wrongs made warring 

sounds 
Of Carmagnola's and Visconti's names. 
But to their bosoms thou wilt now return 
A mourner ; and the object of their hate 



CAIUS GRACCHUS. 



133 



Will be no more. — Oh ! there is joy in death ! — 

And thou, my flower ! that, midst the din of arms, 

Wert born to cheer my soul, thy lovely head 

Droops to the earth ! Alas ! the tempest's rage 

Is on thee now. Thou tremblest, and thy heart 

Can scarce contain the heavings of its woe. 

I feel thy burning tears upon my breast — 

I feel, and cannot dry them. Dost thou claim 

Pity from me, Matilda ! Oh ! thy sire 

Hath now no power to aid thee, but thou know'st 

That the forsaken have a Father still 

On high. Confide in Him, and live to days 

Of peace, if not of joy ; for such to thee 

He surely destines. Wherefore hath He pour'd 

The torrent of affliction on thy youth, 

If to thy future years be not reserved 

All His benign compassion ! Live ! and soothe 

Thy suffering mother. May she to the arms 

Of no ignoble consort lead thee still ! — 

Gonzaga ! take the hand which thou hast press d 

Oft in the morn of battle, when our hearts 

Had cause to doubt if we should meet at eve. 

Wilt thou yet press it, pledging me thy faith 

To guide and guard these mourners, till they join 

Their friends and kindred ? 

Gon. Rest assured, I will. 

Car. I am content. And if, when this is done, 
Thou to the field returnest, there for me 
Salute my brethren ; tell them that I died 
Guiltless ; thou hast been witness of my deeds, 
Hast read my inmost thoughts — and know'st it 

well. 
Tell them I never with a traitor's shame 
Stain'd my bright sword. Oh, never ! — I myself 
Have been ensnared by treachery. Think of me 
When trumpet-notes are stirring every heart, 
And banners proudly waving in the air, — 
Think of thine ancient comrade ! And the day 
Following the combat, when upon the field, 
Amidst the deep and solemn harmony 
Of dirge and hymn, the priest of funeral rites, 
With lifted hands, is offering for the slain 
His sacrifice to heaven ; forget me not I 
For I, too, hoped upon the battle-plain 
E'en so to die. 

Ant. Have mercy on us, heaven ! 

Car. My wife ! Matilda ! Now the hour is nigh, 
And we must part. — Farewell ! 

Mat. No, father ! no ! [and then 

Car. Come to this breast yet, yet once more, 
For pity's sake depart ! 

Ant. No ! force alone 
Shall tear us hence. 

{A sound of arms is heard.) 



Mat. Hark ! what dread sound ! 
Ant. Great God ! 

(The door is half opened, and armed men 
enter, the chief of whom advances to 
the Count. His wife and daughter 
fall senseless.) 
Car. God ! I thank thee. most merciful ! 
Thus to withdraw their senses from the pangs 
Of this dread moment's conflict ! 

Thou, my friend, 
Assist them, bear them from this scene of woe, 
And tell them, when their eyes again unclose 
To meet the day — that naught is left to fear. 

Notwithstanding the pathetic beauties of the 
last act, the attention which this tragedy has ex- 
cited in Italy must be principally attributed to 
the boldness of the author in so completely eman- 
cipating himself from the fetters of the dramatic 
unities. The severity with which the tragic poets 
of that country have, in general, restricted them- 
selves to those rules has been sufficiently remark- 
able to obtain, at least, temporary distinction for 
the courage of the writer who should attempt to 
violate them. Although this piece comprises a 
period of several years, and that, too, in days so 
troubled and so " full of fate " — days in which the 
deepest passions and most powerful energies of 
the human mind were called into action by the 
strife of conflicting interests — there is, neverthe- 
less, as great a deficiency of incident, as if " to be 
born and die" made all the history of aspiring 
natures contending for supremacy. The character 
of the hero is portrayed in words, not in actions ; 
it does not unfold itself in any struggle of opposite 
feelings and passions, and the interest excited for 
him only commences at the moment when it ought 
to have reached its climax. The merits of the 
piece maybe summed up in the occasional energy 
of the language and dignity of the thoughts ; and 
the truth with which the spirit of the age is cha- 
racterised, as well in the development of that 
suspicious policy distinguishing the system of the 
Venetian government, as in the pictures of the 
fiery Condottieri, holding their councils of war — 

" Jealous of honour, sudden and quick in quarrel." 



CAIUS GRACCHUS. 

A TRAGEDY, 

BY MONTI. 

This tragedy, though inferior in power and 



134 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



For those, my bosom's inmates ; and the third — 
Vengeance, fierce vengeance, for a brother's blood ! 

His soliloquy is interrupted by the entrance of 
Fulvius, his friend, with whose profligate charac- 
ter and unprincipled designs he is represented 
as unacquainted. From the opening speech made 
by Fulvius (before he is aware of the presence of 
Caius) to the slave by whom he is attended, it 
appears that he is just returned from the perpe- 
tration of some crime, the nature of which is not 
disclosed until the second act. 

The suspicions of Caius are, however, awakened, 
by the obscure allusions to some act of signal but 
secret vengeance, which Fulvius throws out in the 
course of the ensuing discussion. 

Ful. This is no time for grief and feeble tears, 
But for high deeds. 

Caius. And we will make it such. [friends 

But prove we first our' strength. Declare, what 
(If yet misfortune hath her friends) remain 
True to our cause 1 

Ful. Few, few, but valiant hearts ! 

Oh ! what a change is here ! There was a time 
When, over all supreme, thy word gave law 
To nations and their rulers ; in thy presence 
The senate trembled, and the citizens [word, 

Flock'd round thee in deep reverence. Then a 
A look from Caius — a salute, a smile, [friend, 
Fill'd them with pride. Each sought to be the 
The client, ay, the very slave, of him, 
The people's idol ; and beholding them 
Thus prostrate in thy path, thou, thou thyself, 
Didst blush to see their vileness ! But thy fortune 
Is waning now, her glorious phantoms melt 
Into dim vapour ; and the earthly god, 
So worshipp'd once, from his forsaken shrines 
Down to the dust is hurl'd. 
Caius. And what of this 1 
There is no power in fortune to deprive 
Gracchus of Gracchus. Mine is such a heart 
As meets the storm exultingly — a heart 
Whose stern delight it is to strive with fate, 
And conquer. Trust me, fate is terrible 
But because man is vile. A coward first 
Made her a deity. 

But say, what thoughts 
Are foster'd by the people ? Have they lost 
The sense of their misfortunes 1 Is the name 
Of Gracchus in their hearts — reveal the truth — 
Already number'd with forgotten things? 



interest to the Aristodemo of the same author, is 
nevertheless distinguished by beauties of a high 
order, and such as, in our opinion, fully establish 
its claims to more general attention than it has 
hitherto received. Although the loftiness and 
severity of Roman manners, in the days of the 
Republic, have been sufficiently preserved to give 
an impressive character to the piece, yet those 
workings of passion and tenderness — without 
which dignity soon becomes monotonous, and 
heroism unnatural — have not been (as in the tra- 
gedies of Alfieri upon similar subjects) too rigidly 



The powerful character of the high-hearted 
Cornelia, with all the calm collected majesty which 
our ideas are wont to associate with the name of 
a Roman matron, and the depth and sublimity 
of maternal affection more particularly belonging 
to the mother of the Gracchi, are beautifully con- 
trasted with the softer and more womanish feel- 
ings, the intense anxieties, the sensitive and pas- 
sionate attachment, embodied in the person of 
Sicinia, the wife of Gracchus. The appeals made 
by Gracchus to the people are full of majestic 
eloquence ; and the whole piece seems to be ani- 
mated by that restless and untameable spirit of 
freedom, whose immortalised struggles for ascen- 
dency give so vivid a colouring, so exalted an 
interest, to the annals of the ancient republics. 

The tragedy opens with the soliloquy of Caius 
Gracchus, who is returned in secret to Rome, 
after having been employed in rebuilding Carthage, 
which Scipio had utterly demolished. 

Caius, in Rome behold thyself ! The night 
Hath spread her favouring shadows o'er thy path : 
And thou, be strong, my country ! for thy son 
Gracchus is with thee ! All is hush'd around, 
And in deep slumber ; from the cares of day 
The worn plebeians rest. Oh ! good and true, 
And only Romans ! your repose is sweet, 
For toil hath given it zest ; 'tis calm and pure, 
For no remorse hath troubled it. Meanwhile, 
My brother's murderers, the patricians, hold 
Inebriate vigils o'er their festal boards, 
Or in dark midnight councils sentence me 
To death, and Rome to chains. They little deem 
Of the unlook'd-for and tremendous foe 
So near at hand ! — It is enough. I tread 
In safety my paternal threshold. — Yes ! 
This is my own ! mother ! my wife ! 
My child ! — I come to dry your tears. I come 
Strengthen'd by three dread furies : — One is wrath, 
Fired by my country's wrongs; and one deep love, 






CAIUS GRACCHUS. 



135 



Ful. A breeze, a passing breeze, now here, now 
there, 
Borne on light pinion — such the people's love ! 
Yet have they claims on pardon, for their faults 
Are of their miseries : and their feebleness 
Is to their woes proportion'd. Haply still 
The secret sigh of their full hearts is thine. 
But their lips breathe it not. Their grief is mute ; 
And the deep paleness of their timid mien, 
And eyes in fix'd despondence bent on earth, 
And sometimes a faint murmur of thy name, 
Alone accuse them. They are hush'd — for now 
Not one, nor two, their tyrants ; but a host 
Whose numbers are the numbers of the rich, 
And the patrician Romans. Yes ! and well 
May proud oppression dauntlessly go forth, 
For Rome is widow'd ! Distant wars engage 
The noblest of her youth, by Fabius led, 
And but the weak remain. Hence every heart 
Sickens with voiceless terror ; and the people, 
Subdued and trembling, turn to thee in thought, 
But yet are silent. 

Caius. I will make them heard. 
Rome is a slumbering Hon, and my voice 
Shall wake the mighty. Thou shalt see I came 
Prepared for all ; and as I track'd the deep 
For Rome, my dangers to my spirit grew 
Familiar in its musings. With a voice [waves 
Of wrath the loud winds fiercely swell'd; the 
Mutter'd around; heaven flash'd in lightning forth, 
And the pale steersman trembled : I the while 
Stood on the tossing and bewilder'd bark, 
Retired and shrouded in my mantle's folds, 
With thoughtful eyes cast down, and all absorb'd 
In a far deeper storm ! Around my heart, 
Gathering in secret then, my spirit's powers 
.Held council with themselves; and on my thoughts 
My country rose,— and I foresaw the snares, 
The treacheries of Opimius, and the senate, 
And my false friends, awaiting my return. 

Fulvius ! I wept ; but they were tears of rage ! 
For I was wrought to frenzy by the thought 
Of my wrong'd country, and of him, that brother 
Whose shade through ten long years hath sternly 

cried 
" Vengeance ! "—nor found it yet. 

Ful. It is fulfill'd. 

Caius. And how 1 

Ful Thou shalt be told. 

Caius. Explain thy words. 

Ful Then know — (incautious that I am !) 

Caius. Why thus 
Falters thy voice ] Why speak'st thou not 1 



Ful Forgive ! 
E'en friendship sometimes hath its secrets. 

Caius. No ! 
True friendship never ! 

Caius afterwards inquires what part his brother- 
in-law, Scipio Emilianus, is likely to adopt in their 
enterprises. 

His high renown — 
The glorious deeds, whereby was earn'd his name 
Of second Africanus ; and the blind, 
Deep reverence paid him by the people's hearts, 
Who, knowing him their foe, respect him still — 
All this disturbs me : hardly will be won 
Our day of victory, if by him withstood. 

Ful Yet won it shall be. If but this thou fear'st, 
Then be at peace. 

Caius. I understand thee not. [waste 

Ful. Thou wilt ere long. But here we vainly 
Our time and words. Soon/will the morning break, 
Nor know thy friends as yet of thy return ; 
I fly to cheer them with the tidings. 

Caius. Stay ! 

Ful And wherefore ? 

Caius. To reveal thy meaning. 

Ful Peace ! 
I hear the sound of steps. 

This conversation is interrupted by the entrance 
of Cornelia, with the wife and child of Caius. 
They are about to seek an asylum in the house 
of Emilianus, by whom Cornelia has been warned 
of the imminent danger which menaces the family 
of her son from the fury of the patricians, who 
intend, on the following day, to abrogate the laws 
enacted by the Gracchi in favour of the plebeians. 
The joy and emotion of Gracchus, on thus meet- 
ing with his family, may appear somewhat incon- 
sistent with his having remained so long engaged 
in political discussion, on the threshold of their 
abode, without ever having made an inquiry after 
their welfare ; but it would be somewhat unrea- 
sonable to try the conduct of a Roman (parti- 
cularly in a tragedy) by the laws of nature. Be- 
fore, however, we are disposed to condemn the 
principles which seem to be laid down for the 
delineation of Roman character in dramatic poetry, 
let us recollect that the general habits of the 
people whose institutions gave birth to the fearful 
grandeur displayed in the actions of the elder 
Brutus, and whose towering spirit was fostered to 
enthusiasm by the contemplation of it, must have 
been deeply tinctured by the austerity of even 



136 



ITALIAN LITEBATUBE. 



their virtues. Shakspeare alone, without com- 
promising the dignity of his Bomans, has disen- 
cumbered them of the formal scholastic drapery 
which seems to be their official garb, and has 
stamped their features with the general attributes 
of human nature, without effacing the impress 
which distinguished " the men of iron," from the 
nations who " stood still before them." 

The first act concludes with the parting of Caius 
andFulvius in wrath and suspicion — Cornelia hav- 
ing accused the latter of an attempt to seduce her 
daughter, the wife of Scipio, and of concealing the 
most atrocious designs under the mask of zeal for 
the cause of liberty. 

Of liberty 
What speak'st thou, and to whom % Thou hast 

no shame — 
No virtue — and thy boast is, to be free ! 
Oh ! zeal for liberty ! eternal mask 
Assumed by every crime ! 

In the second act, the death of Emilianus is 
announced to Opimius the consul, in the presence 
of Gracchus, and the intelligence is accompanied 
by a rumour of his having perished by assassina- 
tion. The mysterious expressions of Fulvius, and 
the accusation of Cornelia, immediately recur to 
the mind of Caius. The following scene, in which 
his vehement emotion, and high sense of honour, 
are well contrasted with the cold-blooded sophistry 
of Fulvius, is powerfully wrought up. 

Caius. Back on my thoughts the words of Ful- 
vius rush, 
Like darts of fire. All hell is in my heart ! 

{Fulvius enters.) 
Thou comest in time. Speak, thou perfidious 

friend ! 
Scipio lies murder'd on his bed of death ! — 
Who slew him? 

Fid. Ask'st thou me 1 

Caius. Thee ! thee, who late 
Didst in such words discourse of him as now 
Assure me thou 'rt his murderer. Traitor, speak ! 

Ful. If thus his fate doth weigh upon thy heart, 
Thou art no longer Gracchus, or thou ravest ! 
More grateful praise and warmer thanks might 

well 
Eeward the generous courage which hath freed 
Eome from a tyrant, Gracchus from a foe. 

Caius. Then he was slain by thee 1 

Ful. Ungrateful friend ! 
Why dost thou tempt me 1 Danger menaces 



Thy honour. Freedom's wavering light is dim ; 
Eome wears the fetters of a guilty senate ; 
One Scipio drove thy brother to a death 
Of infamy, another seeks thy fall ; 
And when one noble, one determined stroke 
To thee and thine assures the victory, wreaks 
The people's vengeance, gives thee life and fame, 
And pacifies thy brother's angry shade, 
Is it a cause for wailing 1 Am I call'd 
For this a murderer ] Go ! — I say once more, 
Thou art no longer Gracchus, or thou ravest ! 
Caius. I know thee now, barbarian ! Would'st 

thou serve 
My cause with crimes 1 

Fid. And those of that proud man 
Whom I have slain, and thou dost mourn, are they 
To be forgotten ] Hath oblivion then 
Shrouded the stern destroyer's ruthless work, 
The famine of Numantia ? Such a deed 
As on our name the world's deep curses drew ! 
Or the four hundred Lusian youths betray' d, 
And with their bleeding, mutilated limbs 
Back to their parents sent ? Is this forgot ? 
Go, ask of Carthage ! — bid her wasted shores 
Of him, this reveller in blood, recount 
The terrible achievements ! At the cries, 
The groans, th' unutterable pangs of those, 
The more than hundred thousand wretches, 

doom'd 
(Of every age and sex) to fire, and sword, 
And fetters, I could marvel that the earth 
In horror doth not open ! They were foes, 
They were barbarians, but unarm'd, subdued, 
Weeping, imploring mercy ! And the law 
Of Eoman virtue is, to spare the weak, 
To tame the lofty ! But in other lands, 
Why should I seek for records of his crimes, 
If here the suffering people ask in vain 
A little earth to lay their bones in peace 1 
If the decree which yielded to their claims 
So brief a heritage, and the which to seal 
Thy brother's blood was shed — if this remain 
Still fruitless, still delusive, who was he [clared 
That mock'd its power '] — Who to all Eome de- 
Thy brother's death was just, was needful 1 — Who 
But Scipio 1 And remember thou the words 
Which burst in thunder from thy lips e'en then, 
Heard by the people ! Caius, in my heart 
They have been deeply treasured. He must die, 
(Thus did'st thou speak) this tyrant ! We have need 
That he should perish ! I have done the deed ; 
And call'st thou me his murderer 1 If the blow 
Was guilt, then thou art guilty. From thy lips 
The sentence came— the crime is thine alone. 



PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS. 



137 



I, thy devoted friend, did but obey 
Thy mandate. 

Cams. Thou my friend ! I am not one 
To call a villain friend. Let thunders, fraught 
With fate and death, awake to scatter those 
Who, bringing liberty through paths of blood, 
Bring chains ! — degrading Freedom's lofty self 
Below e'en Slavery's level ! Say thou not, 
Wretch ! that the sentence and the guilt were 

mine ! 
I wish'd him slain ! — 'tis so — but by the axe 
Of high and public justice — that whose stroke 
On thy vile head will fall. Thou hast disgraced 
Unutterably my name : I bid thee tremble ! 

Ful. Caius, let insult cease, I counsel fchee : 
Let insult cease ! Be the deed just or guilty, 
Enjoy its fruits in silence. Force me not 
To utter more. 

Cuius. And what hast thou to say? 

Ful. That which I now suppress. 

Caius. How ! are there yet, 
Perchance, more crimes to be reveal'd . 

Ful. I know not. 

Caius. Thou know'st not 1 — Horror chills my 
curdling veins ; 
I dare not ask thee further. 

Ful. Thou dost well. 

Caius. What saidst thou 1 

Ful. Nothing. 

Caius. On my heart the words 
Press heavily. Oh ! what a fearful light 
Bursts o'er my soul ! — Hast thou accomplices ? 

Ful. Insensate ! ask me not. 

Caius. I must be told. 

Ful. Away ! — thou wilt repent. 

Caius. No more of this, for I will know. 

Fid. Thou wilt? 
Ask then thy sister. 

Cains {alone) Ask my sister ! What ! 
Is she a murderess 1 Hath my sister slain 
Her lord ? Oh ! crime of darkest dye ! Oh ! name 
Till now unstain'd, name of the Gracchi, thus 
Consign'd to infamy ! — to infamy 1 
The very hair doth rise upon my head, 
Thrill'd by the thought ! Where shall I find a 

place 
To hide my shame, to lave the branded stains 
From this dishonour'd brow 1 What should I do ? 
There is a voice whose deep tremendous tones 
Murmur within my heart, and sternly ciy, 
"Away ! — and pause not — slay thy guilty sister !" 
Voice of lost honour, of a noble line 
Disgraced, I will obey thee ! — terribly 
Thou call'st for blood, and thou shalt be appeased. 



PATRIOTIC EFFUSIONS OF THE ITALIAN 
POETS. 

Whoever has attentively studied the works of 
the Italian poets, from the days of Dante and 
Petrarch to those of Foscolo and Pindemonte, 
must have been struck with those allusions to the 
glory ami the lull, the renown and the degrada- 
tion, of Italy, which give a melancholy interest to 
their pages. Amidst all the vicissitudes of that 
devoted country, the warning voice of her bards has 
still been heard to prophesy the impending storm, 
and to call up such deep and spirit-stirring recol- 
lections from the glorious past, as have resounded 
through the land, notwithstanding the loudest 
tumults of those discords which have made her — 

" Lou;?, long, a bloody stage 
For petty kin 
Their miserable game 
Of puny war to wage." 

There is something very affecting in these vain, 
though exalted aspirations after that independence 
which the Italians, as a nation, seem destined 
never to regain. The strains in which their high- 
toned feelings on this subject are recorded, pro- 
duce on our minds the same effect with the song 
of the imprisoned bird, whose melody is fraught, 
in our imagination, with recollections of the green 
woodland, the free air, and unbounded sky. We 
soon grow weary of the perpetual violets and 
zephyrs, whose cloying sweetness pervades the 
sonnets and canzoni of the minor Italian poets, 
till we are ready to "die in aromatic pain;" nor 
is our interest much more excited even by the 
everlasting laurel which inspires the enamoured 
Petrarch with so ingenious a variety of concetti, 
as might reasonably cause it to be doubted whether 
the beautiful Laura, or the emblematic tree, are 
the real object of the bard's affection ; but the 
moment a patriotic chord is struck, our feelings 
are awakened, and we find it easy to sympathise 
with the emotions of a modem Roman, sur- 
rounded by the ruins of the Capitol ; a Venetian 
when contemplating the proud trophies won by 
his ancestors at Byzantium; or a Florentine 
amongst the tombs of the mighty dead, in the 
church of Santa Croce. It is not, perhaps, now 
the time to plead, with any effect, the cause of 
Italy; yet cannot we consider that nation as 
altogether degraded, whose literature, from the 
dawn of its majestic immortality, has been con- 
secrated to the nurture of every generous prin- 
ciple and ennobling recollection; and whose 
"choice and master spirits," under the most 



138 



ITALIAN LITERATURE. 



adverse circumstances, have kept alive a flame, 
which may well be considered as imperishable, 
since the "ten thousand tyrants" of the land 
have failed to quench its brightness. We present 
our readers with a few of the minor effusions, in 
which the indignant though unavailing regrets of 
those who, to use the words of Alfieri, are 
"slaves, yet still indignant slaves," 1 have been 
feelingly portrayed. 

The first of these productions must, in the 
original, be familiar to every reader who has any 
acquaintance with Italian literature. 



VINCENZO DA FILICAJA. 

When from the mountain's brow the gathering 
shades 

Of twilight fall, on one deep thought I dwell : 
Day beams o'er other lands, if here she fades, 

Nor bids the universe at once farewell. 
But thou, I cry, my country ! what a night 

Spreads o'er thy glories one dark sweeping pall ! 
Thy thousand triumphs, won by valour's might 

And wisdom's voice — what now remains of all 1 
And see'st thou not th' ascending flame of war 
Burst through thy darkness, reddening from afar? 

Is not thy misery's evidence complete ? 
But if endurance can thy fall delay, 
Still, still endure, devoted one ! and say, 

If it be victory thus but to retard defeat. 



CARLO MARIA MAGGI. 

I cry aloud, and ye shall hear my call, 

Arno, Sessino, Tiber, Adrian deep, [sleep 

And blue Tyrrhene ! Let him first roused from 

Startle the next ! one peril broods o'er all. 

It nought avails that Italy should plead, 
Forgetting valour, sinking in despair, 
At strangers' feet !— our land is all too fair ; 

Nor tears, nor prayers, can check ambition's speed. 

In vain her faded cheek, her humbled eye, 

For pardon sue ; 'tis not her agony, 

Her death alone may now appease her foes. 

Be theirs to suffer who to combat shun ! 

But oh, weak pride ! thus feeble and undone, 
Nor to wage battle nor endure repose ! 

1 " Schiavi siam, ma schiavi ognor frementi."— Alfieri. 



ALESSANDRO MARCHETTI. 

Italia ! oh, no more Italia now ! 

Scarce of her form a vestige dost thou wear : 
She was a queen with glory mantled — thou, 

A slave, degraded, and compell'd to bear, [care 

Chains gird thy hands and feet ; deep clouds of 
Darken thy brow, once radiant as thy skies ; 

And shadows, born of terror and despair — 
Shadows of death have dimm'd thy glorious eyes. 
Italia ! oh, Italia now no more ! 

For thee my tears of shame and anguish flow ; 
And the glad strains my lyre was wont to pour 

Are changed to dirge-notes : but my deepest woe 
Is, that base herds of thine own sons the while 
Behold thy miseries with insulting smile. 



ALESSANDRO PEGOLOTTI. 

She that cast down the empires of the world, 

And, in her proud triumphal course through 
Rome, 
Dragg'd them, from freedom and dominion hurl'd, 

Bound by the hair, pale, humbled, and o'ercome : 
I see her now, dismantled of her state, 

Spoil'd of her sceptre, crouching to the ground 
Beneath a hostile car — and lo ! the weight 

Of fetters, her imperial neck around ! 
Oh ! that a stranger's envious hands had wrought 

This desolation ! for I then would say, 
" Vengeance, Italia ! " — in the burning thought 

Losing my grief : but 'tis th' ignoble sway 
Of vice hath bow'd thee ! Discord, slothful ease, 
Theirs is that victor car ; thy tyrant lords are these. 



FRANCESCO MARIA DE CONTI. 

THE SHORE OF AFRICA. 

Pilgrim ! whose steps those desert sands explore, 

Where verdure never spreads its bright array ; 
Know, 'twas on this inhospitable shore 

From Pompey's heart the life-blood ebb'd away. 

Twas here betray'd he fell, neglected lay ; 
Nor found his relics a sepulchral stone, 

Whose life, so long a bright triumphal day, 
O'er Tiber's wave supreme in glory shone ! 
Thou, stranger ! if from barbarous climes thy birth, 
Look round exultingly, and bless the earth 

Where Rome, with him, saw power and virtue die ; 
But if 'tis Roman blood that fills thy veins, 
Then, son of heroes ! think upon thy chains, 

And bathe with tears the grave of liberty. 



JEU-D'ESPRIT ON THE WORD "BARB. 



139 



JEU-D'ESPRIT ON THE WORD "BARB." 

[" It was either during the present or a future visit t«» the 
same friends, 1 that the jeu-d'aprit was produced which .Mrs 
I Eemans used to call her ' sheet of forgeries ' on the use of the 
word Barb. A gentleman had requested her to furnish him 
with some authorities from the old English writers, proving 
that this term was in use as applied to a steed. She very 
shortly supplied him with the following imitations, which 
were written down almost impromptu: the mystification suc- 
ceeded perfectly, and was not discovered until some time after- 
wards." — Memoir, p. L'f.] 

The warrior donn'd his well-worn garb, 

And proudly waved his crest, 
He mounted on his jet-black ooro, 

And put his lance in rest. Percy's R< ligues. 

Eftsoons the wight, withoutcn more delay, 
Spurr'd his brown barb, and rode full swiftly on 
his way. SPENSER. 

Hark ! was it not the trumpet's voice I heard ! 
The soul of battle is awake within me ! 
The fate of ages and of empires hangs 
On this dread hour. Why am I not in arms ? 
Bring my good lance, caparison my steed ! 
Base, idle grooms ! are ye in league against me ! 
Haste with my barb, or, by the holy saints. 
Ye shall not live to saddle him to-morrow ! 

Mas-ixger. 

No sooner had the pearl-shedding fingers of the 
young Aurora tremulously unlocked the oriental 
portals of the golden horizon, than the graceful 
flower of chivalry and the bright cynosure of 
ladies' eyes — he of the dazzling breastplate and 
swanlike plume — sprang impatiently from the 
couch of slumber, and eagerly mounted the noble 
barb presented to him by the Emperor of Aspra- 
montania. Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia. 

See'st thou yon chief whose presence seems to rule 
The storm of battle ) Lo ! where'er he moves 
Death follows. Carnage sits upon his crest — 
Fate on his sword is throned — and his white barb, 
As a proud courser of Apollo's chariot, 
Seems breathing fire. Potter's JEschylus. 

Oh ! bonnie look'd my ain true knight, 

His barb so proudly reining ; 
I watch'd him till my tearfu' sight 

Grew aniaist dim wi' straining. 

Border Minstrelsy. 



1 The family of the late Henry Park, Esq., "Wavertree 
Lodge, near Liverpool. 



Why, he can heel the lavolt, and wind a fiery 
barb, as well as tiny gallant in Christendom. He's 
the very pink and mirror of accomplishment. 

Shaesfeabe. 
Pair star of beauty's heaven ! to call thee mine, 

All other joys I joyously would yield ; 
My knightly crest, my bounding barb resign, 

Forthe poor shepherd's crook and daisied field; 
For courts or camps no wish my soul would prove, 
So thou wouldst live with me, and be my love ! 
Earl of Surrey's Poems. 

For thy dear love my weary soul hath grown 
Heedless of youthful sports : 1 seek no more 

Or joyous dance, or music's thrilling tone, 

Or JOTS that once could charm in minstrel lore, 

Or knightly tilt where steel-clad champions meet, 

Borne on impetuous barbs to bleed at beauty's feet. 
Shakspeare's Son/nets. 

As a warrior clad 
Iu Bable anus, like chaos dull and ~a<l. 

But mounted on a barb as white 

As the fresh new-born light, — 

So the black night too soon 
Came riding on the bright and silver moon, 

Whose radiant heavenly ark 
Made till the clouds, beyond her influence, seem 

E'en more than doubly dark, 
Mourning, all widow'd of her glorious beam. 

Cowley. 



THE FEVER DREAM. 

[Amongst the very few specimens that have been preserved 
of Mrs Ilemans's livelier effusions, which she never wrote 
with any other view than the momentary amusement of her 
own immediate circle, is a letter addressed about this time to 
her sister who was then travelling in Italy. The following 
extracts from this familiar epistle may serve to show her 
facility in a style of composition which she latterly entirely 
discontinued. The first part alludes to a strange fancy pro- 
duced by an attack of fever, the description of which had 
given rise to many pleasantries — being an imaginary voyage 
to China, performed in a cocoa-nut shell with that eminent 
old English worthy, John Evelyn.] 

Apropos of your illness, pray give, if you please, 
Some account of the converse you held on high seas 
With Evelyn, the excellent author of " Sylva," 
A work that is very much prized at Bronwylfa. 
I think that old Neptune was visited ne'er 
In so well-rigg'd a ship, by so well-matched a pair. 
There could not have fallen, dear H., to your lot any 
Companion more pleasant, since you're fond of 

botany, 
And his horticultural talents are known, 
Just as well as Canova's for fashioning stone. 



140 



THE FEVER DREAM. 



Of the vessel you sail'd in, 1 just will remark 
That I ne'er heard before of so curious a bark. 
Of gondola, coracle, pirogue, canoe, 
I have read very often, as doubtless have you ; 
Of the Argo conveying that hero young Jason ; 
Of the ship moor'd by Trajan in Nemi's deep basin ; 
Of the galley (in Plutarch you'll find the description) 
Which bore along Cydnus the royal Egyptian ; 
Of that wonderful frigate (see "Curse of Kehama") 
Which wafted fair Kailyal to regions of Brama, 
And the venturous barks of Columbus and Gama. 
But Columbus and Gama to you must resign a 
Full half of their fame, since your voyage to China, 
(I'm astonish'd no shocking disaster befel,) 
In that swift-sailing first-rate — a cocoa-nut shell ! 

I hope, my dear H., that you touch'd at Loo Choo, 
That abode of a people so gentle and true, 
Who with arms and with money have nothing to do. 
How calm must their lives be ! so free from all fears 
Of running in debt, or of running on spears ! 
Oh dear ! what an Eden ! — a land without money ! 
It excels e'en the region of milk and of honey, 
Or the vale of Cashmere, as described in a book 
Full of musk, gems, and roses, and call'd " Lalla 
Rookh." 

But, of all the enjoyments you have, none would 
e'er be 
More valued by me than a chat with Acerbi, 
Of whose travels — related in elegant phrases — 
I have seen many extracts, and heard many praises, 
And have copied (you know I let nothing escape) 
His striking account of the frozen North Cape. 
I think 'twas in his works I read long ago 
(I've not the best memory for dates, as you know,) 
Of a warehouse, where sugar and treacle were stored, 
Which took fire (I suppose being made but of board) 
In the icy domains of some rough northern hero, 
Where the cold was some fifty degrees below zero. 
Then from every burnt cask as the treacle ran out, 
And in streams, just like lava, meander'd about, 
You may fancy the curious effect of the weather, 
The frost, and the fire, and the treacle together. 
When my first for a moment had harden'd my last, 
My second burst out, and all melted as fast ; 
To win their sweet prize long the rivals fought on, 
But I quite forget which of the elements won. 

But a truce with all joking — I hope you'll excuse 
me, 
Since I know you still love to instruct and amuse me, 
For hastily putting a few questions down, 
To which answers from you all my wishes will crown ; 



For you know I'm so fond of the land of Corinne 
That my thoughts are still dwelling its precincts 

within, 
And I read all that authors, or gravely or wittily, 
Or wisely or foolishly, write about Italy ; [tour, 
From your shipmate John Evelyn's amusing old 
To Forsyth's one volume, and Eustace's four, 
In spite of Lord Byron, or Hobhouse, who glances 
At the classical Eustace, and says he romances. 
— Pray describe me from Venice, (don't think it 

a bore,) 
The literal state of the famed Bucentaur, 
And whether the horses, that once were the sun's, 
Are of bright yellow brass, or of dark dingy bronze ; 
For some travellers say one thing, and some say 

another, [pother. 

And I can't find out which, they all make such a 
Oh ! another thing, too, which I'd nearly forgot, 
Are the songs of the gondoliers pleasing or not 1 
These are matters of moment, you'll surely allow, 
For Venice must interest all — even now. 

These points being settled, I ask for no more 
hence, [Florence. 

But should wish for a few observations from 
Let me know if the Palaces Strozzi and Pitti 
Are finish'd ; if not 'tis a shame for the city 
To let one for ages — was e'er such a thing 1 — 
Its entablature want, and the other its wing. 
Say, too, if the Dove (should you be there at Easter, 
And watch her swift flight, when the priests have 

released her) 
Is a turtle, or ring-dove, or but a woo^-pigeon, 
Which makes people gulls in the name of Religion 1 
Pray tell if the forests of famed Vallombrosa 
Are cut down or not ; for this, too, is a Cosa 
About which I'm anxious — as also to know 
If the Pandects, so famous long ages ago, 
Came back (above all, don't forget this to mention) 
To that manuscript library called the Laurentian. 

Since I wrote the above, I by chance have 
found out, [doubt ; 

That the horses are bright yellow brass beyond 
So I'll ask you but this, the same subject pursuing, 
Do you think they are truly Lysippus's doing 1 
— When to Naples you get, let me know, if you will, 
If the Acqua TofFana's in fashion there still; 
For, not to fatigue you with needless verbosity, 
'Tis a point upon which I feel much curiosity. 
I should like to have also, and not written shabbily, 
Your opinion about the Piscina mirdbile ; 
And whether the tomb, which is near Sannazaro's, 
Is decided by you to be really Maro's. 



DABTMOOR. 



141 



DARTMOOR 



A PRIZE POEM. 



[In 1820, the Royal Society of Literature advertised their intention of awarding a prize for the best poem on " Dartmoor ; " 
and, as might have been expected, many competitors entered the field. In the following June, the palm was awarded to Mrs 
Hemans for the composition which follows. 
She thus writes to the friends who had been the first to convey to her the pleasing intelligence of her success : — 
" What with surprise, bustle, and pleasure, I am really almost bewildered. I wish you had but seen the children, when the 

prize was announced to them yesterday The Bishop's kind communication put us in possession of the 

gratifying intelligence a day sooner than we should otherwise have known it, as I did not receive the Secretary's letter till this 
morning. Besides the official announcement of the prize, his despatch also contained a private letter, with which, although it 
is one of criticism, I feel greatly pleased, as it shows an interest in my Itterary success, which, from so distinguished a writer 
as Mr Croly, (of course you have read his poem of Paris,) cannot but be highly gratifying."] 

" Come, bright Improvement ! on the car of Time, 
And rule the spacious world from clime to clime. 
Thy handmaid, Art, shall every wild explore, 
Trace every wave, and culture every shore." Campbell. 

" May ne'er 
That true succession fail of English hearts, 
That can perceive, not less than heretofore 
Our ancestors did feelingly perceive, 

the charm 

Of pious sentiment, diffused afar, 
And human charity, and social love." 



Wordsworth. 



Amidst the peopled and the regal isle, 
Whose vales, rejoicing in their beauty, smile; 
Whose cities, fearless of the spoiler, tower, 
And send on every breeze a voice of power; 
Hath Desolation rear'd herself a throne, 
And mark'd a pathless region for her own 1 
Yes ! though thy turf no stain of carnage wore 
When bled the noble hearts of many a shore ; 
Though not a hostile step thy heath-flowers bent 
When empires totter' d, and the earth was rent ; 
Yet lone, as if some trampler of mankind 
Had still'd life's busy murmurs on the wind, 
And, fiush'd with power in daring pride's excess, 
Stamp'd on thy soil the curse of barrenness ; 
For thee in vain descend the dews of heaven, 
In vain the sunbeam and the shower are given, 
Wild Dartmoor ! thou that, midst thy mountains 

rude, 
Hast robed thyself with haughty solitude, 
As a dark cloud on summer's clear blue sky, 
A mourner, circled with festivity ! 
For all beyond is life ! — the rolling sea, 
The rush, the swell, whose echoes reach not thee. 
Yet who shall find a scene so wild and bare 
But man has left his lingering traces there 1 
E'en on mysterious Afric's boundless plains, 
Where noon with attributes of midnight reigns, 

1 " In some parts of Dartmoor, the surface is thickly strewed 
with stones, which in many instances appear to have been 
collected into piles, on the tops of prominent hillocks, as if 
in imitation of the natural Tors. The Stone-barrows of 



In gloom and silence fearfully profound, 
As of a world unwaked to soul or sound. 
Though the sad wanderer of the burning zone 
Feels, as amidst infinity, alone, 
And nought of life be near, his camel's tread 
Is o'er the prostrate cities of the dead ! 
Some column, rear'd by long-forgotten hands, 
Just lifts its head above the billowy sands — 
Some mouldering shrine still consecrates the scene, 
And tells that glory's footstep there hath been. 
There hath the spirit of the mighty pass'd, 
Not without record ; though the desert blast, 
Borne on the wings of Time, hath swept away 
The proud creations rear'd to brave decay. 
But thou, lone region ! whose unnoticed name 
No lofty deeds have mingled with their fame, 
Who shall unfold thine annals 1 — who shall tell 
If on thy soil the sons of heroes fell, 
In those far ages which have left no trace, 
No sunbeam, on the pathway of their race ? 
Though, haply, in the unrecorded days 
Of kings and chiefs who pass'd without their praise, 
Thou mightst have rear'd the valiant and the free, 
In history's page there is no tale of thee. 

Yet hast thou thy memorials. On the wild, 
Still rise the cairns, of yore all rudely piled, 1 

Dartmoor resemble the cairns of the Cheviot and Grampian 
hills, and those in Cornwall." — See Cooke's Topographical 
Survey of Devonshire, 



142 



DARTMOOR. 



But hallow' d by that instinct which reveres 
Things fraught with characters of elder years. 
And such are these. Long centuries are flown, 
Bow'd many a crest, and shatter'd many a throne, 
Mingling the urn, the trophy, and the bust, [dust. 
With what they hide — their shrined and treasured 
Men traverse Alps and oceans, to behold 
Earth's glorious works fast mingling with her mould; 
But still these nameless chronicles of death, 
Midst the deep silence of the unpeopled heath, 
Stand in primeval artlessness, and wear 
The same sepulchral mien, and almost share 
Th' eternity of nature, with the forms [storms. 
Of the crown'd hills beyond, the dwellings of the 

Yet what avails it if each moss-grown heap 
Still on the waste its lonely vigils keep, 
Guarding the dust which slumbers well beneath 
(Nor needs such care) from each cold season's 

breath ? 
Where is the voice to tell their tale who rest, 
Thus rudely pillow'd, on the desert's breast 1 
Doth the sword sleep beside them 1 Hath there been 
A sound of battle midst the silent scene 
Where now the flocks repose? — did the scythed car 
Here reap its harvest in the ranks of war ] 
And rise these piles in memory of the slain, 
And the red combat of the mountain-plain 1 

It may be thus : — the vestiges of strife, 
Around yet lingering, mark the steps of life, 
And the rude arrows barb remains to tell 1 
How by its stroke, perchance, the mighty fell 
To be forgotten. Vain the warrior's pride, 
The chieftain's power — they had no bard, and died. 2 
But other scenes, from their untroubled sphere, 
The eternal stars of night have witness'd here. 
There stands an altar of unsculptured stone, 3 
Far on the moor, a thing of ages gone, 
Propp'd on its granite pillars, whence the rains 
And pure bright dews have laved the crimson 

stains 
Left by dark rites of blood : for here, of yore, 
When the bleak waste a robe of forest wore, 
And many a crested oak, which now lies low, 
Waved its wild wreath of sacred mistletoe — 

1 Flint arrow-heads have occasionally been found upon 
Dartmoor. 

2 " Vixere fortes ante Agaraemnona 
Multi ; sed omnes illachrymabiles 
Urgentur, ignotique longa 
Nocte, carent quia vate sacro." — Horace. 

" They had no poet, and they died."— Pope's Translation. 

3 On the east of Dartmoor are some Druidical remains, one 



Here, at dim midnight, through the haunted 

shade, 
On druid-harps the quivering moonbeam play'd, 
And spells were breathed, that fill'd the deepening 

gloom 
With the pale, shadowy people of the tomb. 
Or, haply, torches waving through the night 
Bade the red cairn-fires blaze from every height, 4 
Like battle-signals, whose unearthly gleams 
Threw o'er the desert's hundred hills and streams, 
A savage grandeur ; while the starry skies 
Rang with the peal of mystic harmonies, 
As the loud harp its deep-toned hymns sent forth 
To the storm-ruling powers, the war-gods of the 

North. 

But wilder sounds were there : th' imploring cry 
That woke the forest's echo in reply, 
But not the heart's ! Unmoved the wizard train 
Stood round their human victim, and in vain 
His prayer for mercy rose ; in vain his glance 
Look'd up, appealing to the blue expanse, 
Where in their calm immortal beauty shone 
Heaven's cloudless orbs. With faint and fainter 

moan, 
Bound on the shrine of sacrifice he lay, 
Till, drop by drop, life's current ebb'd away ; 
Till rock and turf grew deeply, darkly red, 
And the pale moon gleam'd paler on the dead. 
Have such things been, and here ] — where stillness 

dwells 
Midst the rude barrows and the moorland swells, 
Thus undisturb'd 1 Oh ! long the gulf of time 
Hath closed in darkness o'er those days of crime, 
And earth no vestige of their path retains, 
Save such as these, which strew her loneliest plains 
With records of man's conflicts and his doom, 
His spirit and his dust — the altar and the tomb. 

But ages roll'd away : and England stood 
With her proud banner streaming o'er the flood ; 
And with a lofty calmness in her eye, 
And regal in collected majesty, 
To breast the storm of battle. Every breeze 
Bore sounds of triumph o'er her own blue seas ; 
And other lands, redeem'd and joyous, drank 
The life-blood of her heroes, as they sank 

of which is a Cromlech, whose three rough pillars of granite 
support a ponderous table-stone, and form a kind of large 
irregular tripod. 

4 In some of the Druid festivals, fires were lighted on all 
the cairns and eminences around, by priests, carrying sacred 
torches. All the household fires were previously extinguished, 
and those who were thought worthy of such a privilege, were 
allowed to relight them with a flaming brand, kindled at the 
consecrated cairn-fire. 



DARTMOOR. 



143 



On the red fields they won; whose wild flowers 

wave 
Now in luxuriant beauty o'er their grave. 

'Twas then the captives of Britannia's war 1 
Here for their lovely southern climes afar 
In bondage pined ; the spell-deluded throng 
Dragg'd at ambition's chariot- wheels so long 
To die — because a despot could not clasp 
A sceptre fitted to his boundless grasp ! 

Yes ! they whose march hath rock'd the ancient 

thrones 
And temples of the world — the deepening tones 
Of whose advancing trumpet from repose 
Had startled nations, wakening to their woes — 
Were prisoners here. And there were some whose 

dreams [streams, 

"Were of sweet homes, by chainless mountain- 
And of the vine-clad hills, and many a strain 
And festal melody of Loire or Seine ; 
And of those mothers who had watch'd and wept, 
When on the field the unshelter'd conscript slept, 
Bathed with the midnight dews. And some were 

there 
Of sterner spirits, harden'd by despair ; 
Who, in their dark imaginings, again 
Fired the rich palace and the stately fane, 
Drank in their victim's shriek, as music's breath, 
And lived o'er scenes, the festivals of death ! 

And there was mirth, too ! — strange and savage 
mirth, 
More fearful far than all the woes of earth ! 
The laughter of cold hearts, and scoffs that spring 
From minds for which there is no sacred thing ; 
And transient bursts of fierce, exulting glee — 
The lightning's flash upon its blasted tree ! 

But still, howe'er the soul's disguise were worn, 
If from wild revelry, or haughty scorn, 
Or buoyant hope, it won an outward show, 
Slight was the mask, and all beneath it — woe. 

Yet, was this all 1 Amidst the dungeon-gloom, 
The void, the stillness of the captive's doom, 
Were there no deeper thoughts 1 And that dark 

power 
To whom guilt owes one late but dreadful hour, 
The mighty debt through years of crime delay'd, 
But, as the grave's, inevitably paid ; 



1 The French prisoners, taken in the wars with Napoleon , 
were confined in a depot on Dartmoor. 



Came he not thither, in his burning force, 
The lord, the tamer of dark souls — Remorse ? 

Yes ! as the night calls forth from sea and sky, 
From breeze and wood, a solemn harmony, 
Lost when the swift triumphant wheels of day 
In light and sound are hurrying on their way : 
Thus, from the deep recesses of the heart, 
The voice which sleeps, but never dies, might start, 
Call'd up by solitude, each nerve to thrill 
With accents heard not, save when all is still ! 

The voice, inaudible when havoc's strain 
Crush'd the red vintage of devoted Spain ; 
Mute, when sierras to the war-whoop rung, 
And the broad light of conflagration sprung 
From the south's marble cities ; hush'd midst cries 
That told the heavens of mortal agonies; 
But gathering silent strength, to wake at last 
In concentrated thunders of the past ! 

And there, perchance, some long-bewilder'd 
mind, 
Torn from its lowly sphere, its path confined 
Of village duties, in the Alpine glen, 
Where nature cast its lot midst peasant men ; 
Drawn to that vortex, whose fierce ruler blent 
The earthquake power of each wild element, 
To lend the tide which bore his throne on high 
One impulse more of desperate energy ; 
Might — when the billow's awful rush was o'er 
Which toss'd its wreck upon the storm-beat shore, 
Won from its wanderings past, by suffering tried, 
Search'd by remorse, by anguish purified — 
Have fix'd, at length, its troubled hopes and fears 
On the far world, seen brightest through our tears; 
And, in that hour of triumph or despair, 
Whose secrets all must learn — but none declare, 
When, of the things to come, a deeper sense 
Fills the dim eye of trembling penitence, 
Have turn'd to Him whose bow is in the cloud, 
Around life's limits gathering as a shroud — 
The fearful mysteries of the heart who knows, 
And, by the tempest, calls it to repose ! 

Who visited that deathbed 1 Who can tell 
Its brief sad tale, on which the soul might dwell, 
And learn immortal lessons 1 Who beheld 
The struggling hope, by shame, by doubt repell'd — 
The agony of prayer — the bursting tears — 
The dark remembrances of guilty years, 
Crowding upon the spirit in their might 1 
He, through the storm who look'd, and there was 
light! 



144 



DAKTMOOR. 



That scene is closed ! — that wild, tumultuous 
breast, 
With all its pangs and passions, is at rest ! 
He, too, is fallen, the master-power of strife, 
Who woke those passions to delirious life ; 
And days, prepared a brighter course to run, 
Unfold their buoyant pinions to the sun ! 

It is a glorious hour when Spring goes forth 
O'er the bleak mountains of the shadowy north, 
And with one radiant glance, one magic breath, 
Wakes all things lovely from the sleep of death ; 
While the glad voices of a thousand streams, 
Bursting their bondage, triumph in her beams ! 

But Peace hath nobler changes ! O'er the mind, 
The warm and living spirit of mankind, 
Her influence breathes, and bids the blighted heart, 
To life and hope from desolation start ! 
She with a look dissolves the captive's chain, 
Peopling with beauty widow'd homes again ; 
Around the mother, in her closing years, 
Gathering her sons once more, and from the tears 
Of the dim past but winning purer light, 
To make the present more serenely bright. 

Nor rests that influence here. From clime to 

clime, 
In silence gliding with the stream of time, 
Still doth it spread, borne onwards, as a breeze 
With healing on its wings, o'er isles and seas. 
And as Heaven's breath call'd forth, with genial 

power, 
From the dry wand the almond's living flower, 
So doth its deep-felt chai-m in secret move 
The coldest heart to gentle deeds of love ; 
While round its pathway nature softly glows, 
And the wide desert blossoms as the rose. 

Yes ! let the waste lift up the exulting voice ! 
Let the far-echoing solitude rejoice ! 
And thou, lone moor ! where no blithe reaper's 

song 
E'er lightly sped the summer hours along, 
Bid thy wild rivers, from each mountain-source 
Rushing in joy, make music on their course ! 
Thou, whose sole records of existence mark 
The scene of barbarous rites in ages dark, 
And of some nameless combat ; hope's bright eye 
Beams o'er thee in the light of prophecy ! 
Yet shalt thou smile, by busy culture drest, 
And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast ! 
Yet shall thy cottage smoke, at dewy morn, 
Rise in blue wreaths above the flowering thorn, 



And, midst thy hamlet shades, the embosom'd spire 
Catch from deep-kindling heavens their earliest 
fire. 

Thee, too, that hour shall bless, the balmy close 
Of labour's day, the herald of repose, 
Which gathers hearts in peace ; while social mirth 
Basks in the blaze of each free village hearth ; 
While peasant-songs are on the joyous gales, 
And merry England's voice floats up from all her 

vales. 
Yet are there sweeter sounds ; and thou shalt hear 
Such as to Heaven's immortal host are dear. 
Oh ! if there still be melody on earth 
Worthy the sacred bowers where man drew birth, 
When angel-steps their paths rejoicing trode, 
And the air trembled with the breath of God ; 
It lives in those soft accents, to the sky 1 
Borne from the lips of stainless infancy, [sprang, 
When holy strains, from life's pure fount which 
Breathed with deep reverence, falter on his tongue. 

And such shall be thy music, when the cells, 
Where Guilt, the child of hopeless Misery, dwells, 
(And, to wild strength by desperation wrought, 
In silence broods o'er many a fearful thought,) 
Resound to pity's voice ; and childhood thence, 
Ere the cold blight hath reach'd its innocence, 
Ere that soft rose-bloom of the soul be fled, 
Which vice but breathes on and its hues are dead, 
Shall at the call press forward, to be made 
A glorious offering, meet for Him who said, 
" Mercy, not sacrifice ! " and, when of old 
Clouds of rich incense from his altars roll'd, 
Dispersed the smoke of perfumes, and laid bare 
The heart's deep folds, to read its homage there ! 

When some crown'd conqueror, o'er a trampled 
world 
His banner, shadowing nations, hath unfurl'd, 
And, like those visitations which deform 
Nature for centuries, hath made the storm 
His pathway to dominion's lonely sphere, 
Silence behind — before him, flight and fear ! 
When kingdoms rock beneath his rushing wheels. 
Till each fair isle the mighty impulse feels, 
And earth is moulded but by one proud will, 
And sceptred realms wear fetters, and are still ; 
Shall the free soul of song bow down to pay, 
The earthquake homage on its baleful way ? 

1 In allusion to a plan for the erection of a great national 
school-house on Dartmoor, where it was proposed to educate 
the children of convicts. 



WELSH MELODIES. 



145 



Shall the glad harp send up exulting strains 
O'er burning cities and forsaken plains ? 
And shall no harmony of softer close 
Attend the stream of mercy as it flows, 
And, mingling with the murmur of its wave, 
Bless the green shores its gentle currents lave ] 

Oh ! there are loftier themes, for him whose eyes 
Have search'd the depths of life's realities, 
Than the red battle, or the trophied car, 
Wheeling the monarch-victor fast and far ; 
There are more noble strains than those which swell 
The triumphs ruin may suffice to tell ! 

Ye prophet-bards, who sat in elder days 
Beneath the palms of Judah ! ye whose lays 
With torrent rapture, from their source on high, 
Burst in the strength of immortality ! 



Oh ! not alone, those haunted groves among, 

Of conquering hosts, of empires crush' d, ye sung; 

But of that spirit destined to explore, 

With the bright day-spring, every distant shore, 

To dry the tear, to bind the broken reed, 

To make the home of peace in hearts that bleed ; 

With beams of hope to pierce the dungeon's gloom, 

And pour eternal star-light o'er the tomb. 

And bless'd and hallow'd be its haunts ! for there 
Hath man's high soul been rescued from despair ! 
There hath th' immortal spark for heaven been 

nursed ; 
There from the rock the springs of life have burst 
Quenchless and pure ! and holy thoughts, that rise 
Warm from the source of human sympathies — 
Where'er its path of radiance may be traced, 
Shall find their temple in the silent waste. 



WELSH MELODIES 



THE HARP OF WALES. 

INTRODUCTORY STANZAS, INSCRIBED TO THE RUTHIN 
WELSH LITERARY SOCIETY. 

Harp of the mountain-land ! sound forth again 
As when the foaming Hulas 1 horn was crown'd, 

And warrior hearts beat proudly to the strain, 
And the bright mead at wain's feast went round : 

Wake with the spirit and the power of yore ! 

Harp of the ancient hills ! be heard once more ! 

Thy tones are not to cease ! The Roman came 
O'er the blue waters with his thousand oars : 

Through Mona's oaks he sent the wasting flame ; 
The Druid shrines lay prostrate on our shores : 

All gave their ashes to the wind and sea — 

Ring out, thou harp ! he could not silence thee. 

Thy tones are not to cease ! The Saxon pass'd, 
His banners floated on Eryri's gales ; 2 

But thou wert heard above the trumpet's blast, 
E'en when his towers rose loftiest o'er the vales ! 

Thinew&s the voice that cheer'd the brave and free ; 

They had their hills, their chainless hearts, andthee. 

Those were dark years ! — They saw the valiant fall, 
The rank weeds gathering round the chieftain's 
board, 

1 Hirlas, from hir, long, and glas, blue or azure. 

2 Eryri, the Welsh name for the Snowdon mountains. 



The hearth left lonely in the ruind hall — 

Yet power was tJune — a gift in every chord ! 
Call back that spirit to the days of peace, 
Thou noble harp ! thy tones are not to cease ! 



DRUID CHORUS ON" THE LANDING OF 
THE ROMANS. 

By the dread and viewless powers 

Whom the storms and seas obey, 
From the Dark Isle's 3 mystic bowers, 

Romans ! o'er the deep away ! 
Think ye, 'tis but nature's gloom 

O'er our shadowy coast which broods'? 
By the altar and the tomb, 

Shun these haunted solitudes ! 

Know ye Mona's awful spells 1 

She the rolling orbs can stay ! 
She the mighty grave compels 

Back to yield its fetter'd prey ! 
Fear ye not the lightning stroke 1 

Mark ye not the fiery sky 1 
Hence ! — around our central oak 

Gods are gathering — Romans, fly i 

3 Ynys Bywyll, or the Dark Island— an ancient name for 
Anglesey. 



146 



WELSH MELODIES. 



THE GREEN ISLES OF OCEAN. 1 

Where are they, those green fairy islands, reposing 
In sunlight and beauty on ocean's calm breast 1 
What spirit, the things which are hidden disclosing, 
Shall point the bright way to their dwellings of rest? 

Oh ! lovely they rose on the dreams of past ages, 
The mighty have sought them, undaunted in faith; 
But the land hath been sad for her warriors and 
sages, [death. 

For the guide to those realms of the blessed is 

Where are they, the high-minded children of glory, 
Who steer'd for those distant green spots od the 

wave 1 ? 
To the winds of the ocean they left their wild story, 
In the fields of their country they foundnot agrave. 

Perchance they repose where the summer-breeze 

gathers 
From the flowers of each vale immortality's breath; 
But their steps shall be ne'er on the hills of their 

fathers — [death. 

For the guide to those realms of the blessed is 



THE SEA-SONG OF GAFRAN. 2 

Watch ye well ! The moon is shrouded 

On her bright throne ; 
Storms are gathering, stars are clouded, 

Waves make wild moan. 
'Tis no night of hearth-fires glowing, 
And gay songs and wine-cups flowing ; 
But of winds, in darkness blowing, 

O'er seas unknown ! 

In the dwellings of our fathers, 

Round the glad blaze, 
Now the festive circle gathers 

With harps and lays ; 

1 The " Green Islands of Ocean," or " Green Spots of 
the Floods," called in the Triads " Gwerddonan Llion,'* 
(respecting which some remarkable superstitions have been 
preserved in Wales,) were supposed to be the abode of the 
Fair Family, or souls of the virtuous Druids, who could not 
enter the Christian heaven, but were permitted to enjoy this 
paradise of their own. Gafran, a distinguished British chief- 
tain of the fifth century, went on a voyage with his family to 
discover these islands ; but they were never heard of after- 
wards. This event, the voyage of Merddin Emrys with his 
twelve bards, and the expedition of Madoc, were called the 
three losses by disappearance of the island of Britain.— See 



Now the rush-strewn halls are ringing, 
Steps are bounding, bards are singing, 
— Ay ! the hour to all is bringing 
Peace, joy, or praise. 

Save to us, our night-watch keeping, 

Storm-winds to brave, 
While the very sea-bird sleeping 

Rests in its cave ! 
Think of us when hearths are beaming, 
Think of us when mead is streaming, 
Ye, of whom our souls are dreaming 

On the dark wave ! 



THE HIRLAS HORN. 

Fill high the blue hirlas that shines like the wave 3 
When sunbeams are bright on the spray of the 
sea; 
And bear thou the rich foaming mead to the brave, 

The dragons of battle, the sons of the free ! 
To those from whose spears, in the shock of the 
fight, [the field ; 

A beam, like heaven's lightning, 4 flash'd over 
To those who came rushing as storms in their might, 
Who have shiver'd the helmet, and cloven the 
shield ; 
The sound of whose strife was like oceans afar, 
When lances were red from the harvest of war. 

Fill high the blue hirlas ! cup-bearer, fill 

For the lords of the field in their festival's hour, 
And let the mead foam, like the stream of the hill 

That bursts o'er the rock in the pride of its power : 
Praise, praise to the mighty, fill high the smooth 
horn 

Of honour and mirth, 5 for the conflict is o'er ; 
And round let the golden-tipp'd hirlas be borne 

To the lion-defenders of Gwynedd's fair shore, 
Who rush'd to the field where the glory was won, 
As eagles that soar from their cliffs to the sun. 

W. O. Pughe's Cambrian Biography ; also Cambro- Briton, 
i. 124. 

2 See note to the " Green Isles of Ocean." 

3 " Fetch the horn, that we may drink together, whose 
gloss is like the waves of the sea ; whose green handles show 
the skill of the artist, and are tipped with gold." — From the 
Hirlas Horn of Owain Cyfeiliog. 

4 " Heard ye in Maelor the noise of war, the horrid din 
of arms, their furious onset, loud as in the battle of Bangor, 
where fire flashed out of their spears ? " — From the same. 

5 " Fill, then, the yellow-lipped horn — badge of honour 
and mirth." — From the same. 



WELSH MELODIES. 



147 



Fill higher the hirlas ! forgetting not those 

Who shared its bright draught in the days 
which are fled ! 
Though cold on their mountains the valiant repose, 

Their lot shall be lovely — renown to the dead ! 
While harps in the hall of the feast shall be strung, 

While regal Eryri with snow shall be crown'd — 
So long by the bards shall their battles be sung, 

And the heart of the hero shall burn at the sound. 
The free winds of Maelor 1 shall swell with their 

name, 
And Owain's rich hirlas be fill'd to their fame. 



THE HALL OF CYNDDYLAN. 

The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night; 2 
I weep, for the grave has extinguish'd its light ; 
The beam of the lamp from its summit is o'er, 
The blaze of its hearth shall give welcome no more ! 

The Hall of Cynddylan is voiceless and still, 
The sound of its harpings hath died on the hill ! 
Be silent for ever, thou desolate scene, 
Nor let e'en an echo recall what hath been ! 

The Hall of Cynddylan is lonely and bare, 
No banquet, no guest, not a footstep is there ! 
Oh ! where are the warriors who circled its board 1 
— The grass will soon wave where the mead-cup 
was pour'd ! 

The Hall of Cynddylan is loveless to-night, 
Since he is departed whose smile made it bright ! 
I mourn; but the sigh of my soul shall be brief, 
The pathway is short to the grave of my chief ! 

1 Maelor, part of the counties of Denbigh and Flint, ac- 
cording to the modern division. 

2 " The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night, 

Without fire, without bed — 

I must weep awhile, and then be silent. 

The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night, 
"Without fire, without being lighted— 
Be thou encircled with spreading silence ! 

The Hall of Cynddylan is without love this night, 

Since he that own'd it is no more — 

Ah Death ! it will be but a short time he will leave me. 

The Hall of Cynddylan it is not easy this night, 
On the top of the rock of Hydwyth, [cling feasts ! " 
Without its lord, without company, without the cir- 
Ovven's Heroic Elegies of Llywarch Hen. 

3 " What I loved when I was a youth is hateful to me 



THE LAMENT OF LLYWARCH HEN. 

[Llywarch Hen, or Llywarch the Aged, a celebrated bard 
and chief of the times of Arthur, was prince of Argoed, sup- 
posed to be a part of the present Cumberland. Having 
sustained the loss ol his patrimony, and witnessed the fall of 
most of his sons, in the unequal contest maintained by the 
North Britons against the growing power of the Saxons, 
Llywarch was compelled to fly from his country, and seek 
refuge in Wales. He there found an asylum for some time 
in the residence of Cynddylan, Prince of Powys, whose fall 
he pathetically laments in one of his poems. These are still 
extant ; and his elegy on old age and the loss of his sons, is 
remarkable for its simplicity and beauty.— See Cambrian 
Biography, and Owen's Heroic Elegies and other poems of 
Llywarch Hen.'] 

The blight hours return, and the blue sky is 

ringing 
With song, and the hills are all mantled with bloom ; 
But fairer than aught which the summer is bringing, 
The beauty and youth gone to people the tomb ! 
Oh ! why should I live to hear music resounding, 
Which cannot awake ye, my lovely, my brave 1 
Why smile the waste flowers, my sad footsteps 

surrounding ] 
— My sons ! they but clothe the green turf of 



your grave 



Alone on the rocks of the stranger I linger, 
My spirit all wrapt in the past as a dream ! 
Mine ear hath no joy in the voice of the singer, 3 
Mine eye sparkles not to the sunlight's glad beam; 
Yet, yet I live on, though forsaken and weeping ! 
— grave ! why refuse to the aged thy bed, 
When valour's high heart on thy bosom is sleeping, 
When youth's glorious flower is gone down to the 
dead ! 

Fair were ye, my sons ! and all kingly your bearing, 
As on to the fields of your glory ye trode ! [ing, 
Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wear- 
Each eye glancing fire, shrouded now by the sod ! 4 
I weep when the blast of the trumpet is sounding, 
Which rouses ye not, my lovely ! my brave ! 
When warriors and chiefs to their proud steeds 
are bounding, [grave! 5 

I turn from heaven's light, for it smiles on your 

4 " Four and twenty sons to me have been 

Wearing the golden chain, and leading princes." 
Elegies of Llywarch Hen. 
The golden chain, as a badge of honour, worn by heroes, 
is frequently alluded to in the works of the ancient British 
bards. 

5 " Hardly has the snow covered the vale, 

When the warriors are hastening to the battle ; 
I do not go, I am hinder'd by infirmity." 

Elegies of Llyivarch Hen. 



148 



WELSH MELODIES. 



GKUFYDD'S FEAST. 

[" Grafydd ab Rhys ab Tewdwr, having resisted the Eng- 
lish successfully in the time of Stephen, and at last obtained 
from them an honourable peace, made a great feast at his 
palace in Ystrad Tywi to celebrate this event. To this feast, 
which was continued for forty days, he invited all who would 
come in peace from Gwynedd, Powys, the Deheubarfh, Glam- 
organ, and the marches. Against the appointed time he 
prepared all kinds of delicious viands and liquors ; with every 
entertainment of vocal and instrumental song ; thus patronis- 
ing the poets and musicians. He encouraged, too, all sorts 
of representations and manly games, and afterwards sent 
away all those who had excelled in them with honourable 
gifts. "—Cambrian Biography. ] 

Let the yellow mead shine for the sons of the brave, 
By the bright festal torches around us that wave ! 
Set open the gates of the prince's wide hall, 
And hang up the chief's ruddy spear on the wall ! 
There is peace in the land we have battled to save : 
Then spread ye the feast, bid the wine-cup foam 

high, 1 
That those may rejoice who have fear'd not to die ! 

Let the horn whose loud blast gave the signal for 

fight, 
With the bees sunny nectar now sparkle in light f 
Let the rich draught it offers with gladness be 

crown'd, [sound ! 

For the strong hearts in combat that leap'd at its 

Like the billows' dark swell was the path of 

their might, 
Eed, red as their blood, fill the wine-cup on high, 
That those may rejoice who have fear'd not to die ! 

And wake ye the children of song from their dreams, 
OnMaelor's wild hills and by Dyfed's fair streams ! 3 
Bid them haste with those strains of the lofty and 

free, 
Which shall flow down the waves of long ages to be. 
Sheath the sword which hath given them un- 

perishing themes, [high, 

And pour the bright mead : let the wine-cup foam 
That those may rejoice who have fear'd not to die ! 



THE CAMBRIAN" IN AMERICA, 

When the last flush of eve is dying 
On boundless lakes afar that shine ; 

1 Wine, as well as mead, is frequently mentioned in the 
poems of the ancient British bards. 

2 The horn was used for two purposes — to sound the alarm 
in war, and to drink the mead at feasts. 

3 Dyfed, (said to signify a land abounding with streams of 
water,) the modern Pembrokeshire. 



When winds amidst the palms are sighing, 
And fragrance breathes from every pine : 4 

When stars through cypress-boughs are gleaming, 
And fire-flies wander bright and free, 

Still of thy harps, thy mountains dreaming, 
My thoughts, wild Cambria ! dwell with thee ! 

Alone o'er green savannas roving, 

Where some broad stream in silence flows, 
Or through th' eternal forests moving, 

One only home my spirit knows ! 
Sweet land, whence memory ne'er hath parted ! 

To thee on sleep's light wing I fly ; 
But happier could the weary-hearted 

Look on his own blue hills and die ! 



TALIESIN'S PROPHECY. 

[A prophecy of Taliesin relating to the ancient Britons is 
still extant, and has been strikingly verified. It is to the 
following effect : — 

" Their God they shall worship, 
Their language they shall retain, 
Their land they shall lose, 
Except wild Wales."] 

A voice from time departed yet floats thy hills 
among, [sung : 

Cambria ! thus thy prophet bard, thy Taliesin 
"The path of unborn ages is traced upon my soul, 
The clouds which mantle things unseen away 

before me roll, [pass'd, 

A light the depths revealing hath o'er my spirit 
A rushing sound from days to be swells fitful in 

the blast, [tongue 

And tells me that for ever shall live the lofty 
To which the harp of Mona's woods by freedom's 

hand was strung. 

" Green island of the mighty ! 5 I see thine ancient 

race 
Driven from their fathers' realm to make the rocks 

their dwelling-place ! 

1 see fromUthyr's 6 kingdom the sceptre pass away, 
And many a line of bards and chiefs and princely 

men decay. 
But long as Arvon's mountains shall lift their 

sovereign forms, 
And wear the crown to which is given dominion 

o'er the storms, 
* The aromatic odour of the pine has frequently been men- 
tioned by travellers. 

5 Tnys y Cedeim, or Isle of the Mighty— an ancient name 
given to Britain. 

6 UthyrPendragon, king of Britain, supposed to have been 
the father of Arthur. 



WELSH MELODIES. 



149 



So long, their empire sharing, shall live the lofty- 
tongue 

To which the harp of Mona's woods by freedom's 
hand was strung ! " 



OWEN GLYNDWR'S WAR-SONG. 

Saw ye the blazing star 1 1 

The heavens look'd down on freedom's war, 

And lit her torch on high ! 
Bright on the dragon crest 2 
It tells that glory's wing shall rest, 

When warriors meet to die ! 
Let earth's pale tyrants read despair 

And vengeance in its flame ; 
Hail ye, my bards ! the omen fair 

Of conquest and of fame, 
And swell the rushing mountain air 

With songs to Glendwr's name. 

At the dead hour of night. 

Mark'd ye how each majestic height 

Burn'd in its awful beams 1 
Bed shone th' eternal snows, 
And all the land, as bright it rose, 

Was full of glorious dreams ! 
eagles of the battle, 3 rise ! 

The hope of Gwynedd wakes ! 4 
It is your banner in the skies 

Through each dark cloud which breaks, 
And mantles with triumphal dyes 

Your thousand hills and lakes ! 

A sound is on the breeze, 

A murmur as of swelling seas ! 

The Saxon on his way ! 
Lo ! spear and shield and lance, 
From Deva's waves, with lightning glance, 

Beflected to the day ! 
But who the torrent-wave compels 

A conqueror's chain to bear 1 



1 The year 1402 was ushered in with a comet or blazing 
star, which the bards interpreted as an omen favourable to 
the cause of Glendwr. It served to infuse spirit into the 
minds of a superstitious people, the first success of their 
chieftain confirmed this belief, and gave new vigour to their 
actions. — Pennant. 

2 Owen Glendwr styled himself the Dragon ; a name he 
assumed in imitation of Uthyr, whose victories over the 
Saxons were foretold by the appearances of a star with a dragon 
beneath, which Uthyr used as his badge ; and on that account 
it became a favourite one with the Welsh. — Pennant. 



Let those who wake the soul that dwells 
On our free winds, beware ! 

The greenest and the loveliest dells 
May be the lion's lair ! 

Of us they told, the seers, 

And monarch bards of elder years, 

Who walk'd on earth as powers ! 
And in their burning strains, 
A spell of might and mystery reigns, 

To guard our mountain-towers ! 
— In Snowdon's caves a prophet lay: 5 

Before his gifted sight, 
The march of ages pass'd away 

With hero-footsteps bright ; 
But proudest in that long array, 

Was Glendwr's path of light ! 



PRINCE MADOC'S FABEWELL. 

Why lingers my gaze where the last hues of day 
On the hills of my country in loveliness sleep 1 

Too fair is the sight for a wand'rer, whose way 
Lies far o'er the measureless worlds of the deep ! 

Fall, shadows of twilight ! and veil the green shore, 

That the heart of the mighty may waver no more ! 

Why rise on my thoughts, ye free songs of the land 
Where the harp's lofty soul on each wild wind 
is borne 1 

Be hush'd, be forgotten ! for ne'er shall the hand 
Of minstrel with melody greet my return. 

— No ! no ! — let your echoes still float on the breeze, 

And my heart shall be strong for the conquest of 



'Tis not for the land of my sires to give birth 
Unto bosoms that shrink when their trial is nigh; 

Away ! we will bear over ocean and earth 
A name and a spirit that never shall die. 



3 " Bring the horn to Tudwrou, the Eagle of Battles."— 
See the Hirlas Horn of Owain Cyfeiliog. The eagle is a 
very favourite image with the ancient Welsh poets. 

4 Gwynedd, (pronounced Gwyneth,) North Wales. 

s Merlin, or Merddin Emrys, is said to have composed his 
prophecies on the future lot of the Britons, amongst the 
mountains of Snowdon. Many of these, and other ancient 
prophecies, were applied by Glyndwr to his own cause, 
and assisted him greatly in animating the spirit of his fol- 
lowers. 



150 



WELSH MELODIES. 



My course to the winds, to the stars, I resign ; 
But my soul's quenchless fire, my country ! 
thine. 



CASWALLON'S TRIUMPH. 

[Caswallon (or Cassivelaunus) was elected to the supreme 
command of the Britons, (as recorded in the Triads,) for the 
purpose of opposing Caesar, under the title of Elected Chief of 
Battle. Whatever impression the disciplined legions of Rome 
might have made on the Britons in the first instance, the 
subsequent departure of Caesar they considered as a cause of 
triumph ; and it is stated that Caswallon proclaimed an as- 
sembly of the various states of the island, for the purpose of 
celebrating that event by feasting and public rejoicing. — 
Cambrian Biography.] 

From the glowing southern regions, 
Where the sun-god makes his dwelling, 

Came the Roman's crested legions 
O'er the deep, round Britain swelling. 

The wave grew dazzling as he pass'd, 

With light from spear and helmet cast ; 

And sounds in every rushing blast 
Of a conqueror's march were telling. 

But his eagle's royal pinion, 

Bowing earth beneath its glory, 
Could not shadow with dominion 

Our wild seas and mountains hoary ! 
Back from their cloudy realm it flies, 
To float in light through softer skies ; 
Oh ! chainless winds of heaven arise ! 

Bear a vanquish'd world the story ! 

Lords of earth ! to Rome returning, 

Tell how Britain combat wages, 
How Caswallon's soul is burning 

When the storm of battle rages ! 
And ye that shrine high deeds in song, 

holy and immortal throng ! 

The brightness of his name prolong, 
As a torch to stream through ages ! 

1 " I have rode hard, mounted on a fine high-bred steed, 
upon thy account, O thou with the countenance of cherry- 
flower bloom. The speed was with eagerness, and the strong 
long-hamm'd steed of Alban reached the summit of the high 
land of Bran." 

2 " My loving heart sinks with grief without thy sup- 
port, O thou that hast the whiteness of the curling waves ! 

I know that this pain will avail me nothing 

towards obtaining thy love, O thou whose countenance is 
bright as the flowers of the hawthorn ! " — Howel's Ode to 



HOWEL'S SONG. 

[Howel ab Einion Llygliw was a distinguished bard of 
the fourteenth century. A beautiful poem, addressed by 
him to Myfanwy Vychan, a celebrated beauty of those times, 
is still preserved amongst the remains of the Welsh bards. 
The ruins of Myfanwy's residence, Castle Dinas Bran, may 
yet be traced on a high hill near Llangollen.] 

Press on, my steed ! I hear the swell x 
Of Valle Crucis' vesper-bell, 
Sweet floating from the holy dell 

O'er woods and waters round. 
Perchance the maid I love, e'en now, 
From Dinas Bran's majestic brow, 
Looks o'er the fairy world below, 

And listens to the sound ! 

I feel her presence on the scene ! 

The summer air is more serene, 

The deep woods wave in richer green, 

The wave more gently flows ! 
fair as ocean's curling foam ! 2 
Lo ! with the balmy hour I come — 
The hour that brings the wanderer home, 

The weary to repose ! 

Haste ! on each mountain's darkening crest 
The glow hath died, the shadows rest, 
The twilight star on Deva's breast 

Gleams tremulously bright ; 
Speed for Myfanwy's bower on high ! 
Though scorn may wound me from her eye, 
Oh ! better by the sun to die, 

Than live in rayless night ! 



THE MOUNTAIN FIRES. 



[' ' The custom retained in Wales of lighting fires (Coelcerthi) 
on November eve, is said to be a traditional memorial of the 
massacre of the British chiefs by Hengist, on Salisbury 
plain. The practice is, however, of older date, and had 
reference originally to the Alban Elved, or new-year."— 
Cambro-Briton. 

When these fires are kindled on the mountains, and seen 
through the darkness of a stormy night, casting a red and 
fitful glare over heath and rock, their effect is strikingly pic- 
turesque.] 

Light the hills ! till heaven is glowing 
As with some red meteor's rays ! 

Winds of night, though rudely blowing, 
Shall but fan the beacon-blaze. 



. 



WELSH MELODIES. 



151 



Light the hills ! till flames are streaming 
From Yr Wyddfa's sovereign steep, 1 

To the waves round Mona gleaming, 
Where the Koman track'd the deep ! 

Be the mountain watch-fires heighten'd, 

Pile them to the stormy sky ! 
Till each torrent-wave is brighten' d, 

Kindling as it rushes by. 
Now each rock, the mist's high dwelling, 

Towers in reddening light sublime ; 
Heap the flames ! around them telling 

Tales of Cambria's elder time. 

Thus our sires, the fearless-hearted, 

Many a solemn vigil kept, 
When, in ages long departed, 

O'er the noble dead they wept. 
In the winds we hear their voices — 

" Sons ! though yours a brighter lot, 
When the mountain-land rejoices, 

Be her mighty unforgot ! " 



ERYRI WEN. 

[" Snowdon was held as sacred by the ancient Britons, as 
Parnassus was by the Greeks, and Ida by the Cretans. It is 
Btill said, that whosoever slept upon Snowdon would wake 
inspired, as much as if he had taken a nap on the hill of 
Apollo. The Welsh had always the strongest attachment to 
the tract of Snowdon. Our princes had, in addition to their 
title, that of Lord of Snowdon."— Pennant.] 

Theirs was no dream, monarch hill, 
With heaven's own azure crown'd ! 

Who call'd thee — what thou shalt be still, 
White Snowdon ! — holy ground. 

They fabled not, thy sons who told 

Of the dread power enshrined 
Within thy cloudy mantle's fold, 

And on thy rushing wind ! 

1 Yr Wyddfa, the "Welsh name of Snowdon, said to mean 
the conspicuous place, or object. 

2 Dinas Emrys, (the fortress of Ambrose,) a celebrated 
rock amongst the mountains of Snowdon, is said to be so 
called from having been the residence of Merddin Emrys, 
called by the Latins Merlinus Ambrosius, the celebrated 
prophet and magician : and there, tradition says, he wrote 
his prophecies concerning the future state of the Britons. 

There is another curious tradition respecting a large stone, 
on the ascent of Snowdon, called Maen du yr Arddu, the 
black stone of Arddu. It is said, that if two persons were to 
sleep a night on this stone, in the morning one would find 



It shadow'd o'er thy silent height, 

It fill'd thy chainless air, 
Deep thoughts of majesty and might 

For ever breathing there. 

Nor hath it fled ! the awful spell 

Yet holds unbroken sway, 
As when on that wild rock it fell 

Where Merddin Emrys lay ! 2 

Though from their stormy haunts of yore 

Thine eagles long have flown, 3 
As proud a flight the soul shall soar 

Yet from thy mountain-throne ! 

Pierce then the heavens, thou hill of streams ! 

And make the snows thy crest ! 
The sunlight of immortal dreams 

Around thee still shall rest. 

Eryri ! temple of the bard ! 

And fortress of the free ! 
Midst rocks which heroes died to guard, 

Their spirit dwells with thee ! 



CHANT OF THE BARDS BEFORE THEIR 
MASSACRE BY EDWARD I. 4 

Raise ye the sword ! let the death-stroke be given; 
Oh ! swift may it fall as the lightning of heaven ! 
So shall our spirits be free as our strains — 
The children of song may not languish in chains ! 

Have ye not trampled our country's bright crest? 
Are heroes reposing in death on her breast % 
Red with their blood do her mountain-streams flow, 
And think ye that still we would linger below 1 ? 

Rest, ye brave dead ! midst the hills of your sires, 
Oh ! who would not slumber when freedom expires] 
Lonely and voiceless your halls must remain — 
The children of song may not breathe in the chain ! 

himself endowed with the gift of poetry, and the other would 
become insane. — Williams's Observations on the Snowdon 
Mountains. 

3 It is believed amongst the inhabitants of these moun- 
tains, that eagles have heretofore bred in the lofty clefts of 
their rocks. Some wandering ones are still seen at times, 
though very rarely, amongst the precipices. — Williams's 
Observations on the Snowdon Mountains. 

4 This sanguinary deed is not attested by any historian of 
credit. And it deserves to be also noticed, that none of the 
bardic productions since the time of Edward make any allu- 
sion to such an event. — Cambro-Briton, vol. i., p. 195. 



152 



WELSH MELODIES. 



THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY. 1 

The hall of harps is lone to-night, 

And cold the chieftain's hearth : 
It hath no mead, it hath no light ; 

No voice of melody, no sound of mirth. 

The bow lies broken on the floor 

Whence the free step is gone ; 
The pilgrim turns him from the door [stone. 

Where minstrel-blood hath stain'd the threshold 

" And I, too, go : my wound is deep, 

My brethren long have died ; 
Yet, ere my soul grow dark with sleep, 

Winds ! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride ! 

" Bear it where, on his battle-plain, 

Beneath the setting sun, 
He counts my country's noble slain — 

Say to him — Saxon, think not all is won. 

" Thou hast laid low the warrior's head, 

The minstrel's chainless hand : 
Dreamer ! that numberest with the dead 

The burning spirit of the mountain-land ! 

" Think'st thou, because the song hath ceased, 

The soul of song is fiown ] 
Think'st thou it woke to crown the feast, 

It lived beside the ruddy hearth alone 1 

" No ! by our wrongs, and by our blood ! 

We leave it pure and free ; 
Though hush'd awhile, that sounding flood 

Shall roll in joy through ages yet to be. 

" We leave it midst our country's woe — 

The birthright of her breast ; 
We leave it as we leave the snow 

Bright and eternal on Eryri's crest. 

We leave it with our fame to dwell 

Upon our children's breath ; 
Our voice in theirs through time shall swell — 

The bard hath gifts of prophecy from death. 

He dies ; but yet the mountains stand, 

Yet sweeps the torrent's tide ; 
And this is yet Aneurin's 2 land — 

Winds ! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride ! 

1 At the time of the supposed massacre of the Welsh bards 
by Edward the First. 

2 Aneurin, one of the noblest of the Welsh bards. 



THE FAIR ISLE. 3 

FOR THE MELODY CALLED THE " WELSH GROUND." 

[The Bard of the Palace, under the ancient Welsh princes, 
always accompanied the army when it marched into an 
enemy's country ; and, while it was preparing for battle or 
dividing the spoils, he performed an ancient song, called 
Unbennaeth Prydain, the Monarchy of Britain. It has been 
conjectured that this poem referred to the tradition of the 
Welsh, that the whole island had once been possessed by their 
ancestors, who were driven into a corner of it by their Saxon 
invaders. When the prince had received his share of the 
spoils, the bard, for the performance of this song, was rewarded 
with the most valuable beast that remained.— Jones's His- 
torical Account of the Welsh Bards.'] 

I. 
Sons of the Fair Isle ! forget not the time 
Ere spoilers had breathed thefree airof your clime; 
All that its eagles behold in their flight [height. 
Was yours, from the deep to each storm-mantled 
Though from your race that proud birthright be 

torn, 
Unquench'd is the spirit for monarchy born. 



Darkly though clouds may hang o'er us awhile, 
The crown shall not pass from the Beautiful Isle. 



Ages may roll ere your children regain 
The land for which heroes have perish'd in vain 
Yet, in the sound of your names shall be power, 
Around her still gathering in glory's full hour. 
Strong in the fame of the mighty that sleep, 
Your Britain shall sit on the throne of the deep. 

CHORUS. 

Then shall their spirits rejoice in her smile, 
Who died for the crown of the Beautiful Isle. 



THE ROCK OF CADER IDRIS. 

[It is an old tradition of the Welsh bards, that on the 
summit of the mountain Cader Idris, is an excavation resem- 
bling a couch ; and that whoever should pass a night in that 
hollow, would be found in the morning either dead, in a 
a frenzy, or endowed with the highest poetical inspiration.] 

I lay on that rock where the storms have their 

dwelling, cloud ; 

The birthplace of phantoms, the home of the 

3 Ynys Prydain was the ancient Welsh name of Britain, 
and signifies fair or beautiful isle. 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



153 



Around it for ever deep music is swelling, 

The voice of the mountain-wind, solemn and loud. 

'Twas a midnight of shadows all fitfully streaming, 

Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their 

moan ; [ing ; 

Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulfs faintly gleam- 
Andl met the dread gloom of its grandeur alone. 

I lay there in silence — a spirit came o'er me ; 

Man's tongue hath no language to speak what 

I saw ; [me, 

Things glorious, unearthly, pass'd floating before 

And my heart almost fainted with rapture and 
awe. 
I viev/d the dread beings around us that hover, 

Though veil'd by the mists of mortality's breath ; 
And I call'd upon darkness the vision to cover, 

For a strife was within me of madness and death. 

I saw them — the powers of the wind and the ocean, 
The rush of whose pinion bears onward the 
storms : 



[" The Welsh Melodies, which first introduced Mrs 
Hemans to the public as a song-writer, had already made 
their appearance. Some of them are remarkable for the 
melody of their numbers — in particular, the song to the well- 
known air, " Ar hyd y nos." Her fine feeling for music, in 
which, as also in drawing, she would have signally excelled, 
could she have bestowed the time and patient labour requisite 
for obtaining mastery over the mechanical difficulties of these 
arts, assisted her not only in her choice of measures, but also 
of her words ; and, although in speaking of her songs, it 
must be remarked that some of the later ones are almost too 
full of meaning to require the further clothing of sweet sound, 



Like the sweep of the white-rolling wave was their 
motion — 
I felt their dim presence, but knew not their 
forms ! 
I saw them — the mighty of ages departed — 

The dead were around me that night on the hill : 
From their eyes, as they pass'd, a cold radiance 
they darted, — 
There was light on my soul, but my heart's 
blood was chill. 

I saw what man looks on, and dies — but my spirit 

Was strong, and triumphantly lived through 
that hour ; 
And, as from the grave, I awoke to inherit 

A flame all immortal, a voice, and a power ! 
Day burst on that rock with the purple cloud 
crested, 

And high Cader Idris rejoiced in the sun ; — 
But oh ! what new glory all nature invested, 

When the sense which gives soul to her beauty 



instead of their being left, as in outline, waiting for the 
musician's colouring hand, they must be all praised as flowing 
and expressive ; and it is needless to remind the reader how 
many of them, united with her sister's music, have obtained 
the utmost popularity. She had well studied the national 
character of the Welsh airs, and the allusions to the legen- 
dary history of the ancient Britons, which her songs con- 
tain, are happily chosen. But it was an instinct with Mrs 
Hemans to catch the picturesque points of national char- 
acter, as well as of national music : in the latter she 
always delighted." — Chorley's Memorials of Mrs Hemans, 
p. 80-1.] 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 

[" Mrs Hemans was at this time (1821) occupied in the composition of her tragedy, * The Vespers of Palermo,' which she 
originally wrote without any idea of offering it for the stage. The sanguine recommendations, however, of Mr Reginald 
Heber, and the equally kind encouragement of Mr Milman, (to whose correspondence she was introduced through the medium 
of a mutual friend, though she had never the advantage of his personal acquaintance,) induced her to venture upon a step 
which her own diffidence would have withheld her from contemplating, but for the support of such high literary authorities. 
Indeed, notwithstanding the flattering encomiums which were bestowed upon the tragedy by all who read it, and most espe- 
cially by the critics of the green-room, whose imprimatur might have been supposed a sufficiently safe guarantee of success, 
her own anticipations, throughout the long period of suspense which intervened between its acceptance and representation, 
were far more modified than those of her friends. In this subdued tone of feeling she thus wrote to Mr Milman : — ' As 1 
cannot help looking forward to the day of trial with much more of dread than of sanguine expectation, I most willingly 
acquiesce in your recommendations of delay, and shall rejoice in having the respite as much prolonged as possible. I begin 
almost to shudder at my own presumption, and, if it were not for the kind encouragement 1 have received from you and Mr 
Reginald Heber, should be much more anxiously occupied in searching for any outlet of escape, than in attempting to overcome 
the difficulties which seem to obstruct my onward path.'"— Memoir, p. 81-2.] 



154 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Count di Procida. 

Raimond di Procida, his Son. 

Eribert, Viceroy* 

De Couci. 

Montalba. 

Guido. 



Alberti. 
Anselmo, a Monk. 



VlTTORIA. 

Constance, Sister to Eribert. 



Nobles, Soldiers, Messengers, Vassals, Peasants, &c. &c. Scene — Palermo. 



ACTI. 

Scene I. — A Valley, with vineyards and cottages. 

Groups of Peasants — Procida, disguised as 
a Pilgrim, among them. 

1st Pea. Ay, this was wont to be a festal time 
In days gone by ! I can remember well 
The old familiar melodies that rose 
At break of morn, from all our purple hills, 
To welcome in the vintage. Never since 
Hath music seem'd so sweet. But the light hearts 
Which to those measures beat so joyously, 
Are tamed to stillness now. There is no voice 
Of joy through all the land. 

2d Pea. Yes ! there are sounds 
Of revelry within the palaces, 
And the fair castles of our ancient lords, 
Where now the stranger banquets. Ye may hear 
From thence the peals of song and laughter rise 
At midnight's deepest hour. 

2>d Pea. Alas ! we sat, 
In happier days, so peacefully beneath 
The olives and the vines our fathers rear'd, 
Encircled by our children, whose quick steps 
Flew by us in the dance ! The time hath been 
When peace was in the hamlet, wheresoe'er 
The storm might gather. But this yoke of France 
Falls on the peasant's neck as heavily 
As on the crested chieftain's. We are bow'd 
E'en to the earth. 

Pea's Child. My father, tell me when 
Shall the gay dance and song again resound 
Amidst our chestnut-woods, as in those days 
Of which thou 'rt wont to tell the joyous tale 1 

1st Pea. When there are light and reckless 
hearts once more 
In Sicily's green vales. Alas, my boy ! 
Men meet not now to quaff the flowing bowl, 
To hear the mirthful song, and cast aside 
The weight of work-day care : they meet to speak 
Of wrongs and sorrows, and to whisper thoughts 
They dare not breathe aloud. 

Pro. {from the background.) Ay, it is well 



So to relieve th' o'erburthen'd heart, which pants 
Beneath its weight of wrongs ; but better far 
In silence to avenge them ! 

An Old Pea. What deep voice 
Came with that startling tone 1 

1st Pea. It was our guest's, 
The stranger pilgrim who hath sojourn'd here 
Since yester-morn. Good neighbours, mark him 

well : 
He hath a stately bearing, and an eye [accords 
Whose glance looks through the heart. His mien 
111 with such vestments. How he folds around him 
His pilgrim-cloak, e'en as it were a robe 
Of knightly ermine ! That commanding step 
Should have been used in courts and camps to 

move. 
Mark him ! 

Old Pea. Nay, rather mark him not ; the times 
Are fearful, and they teach the boldest hearts 
A cautious lesson. What should bring him here 1 

A Youth. He spoke of vengeance ! 

Old Pea. Peace ! we are beset 
By snares on every side, and we must learn 
In silence and in patience to endure. 
Talk not of vengeance, for the word is death. 

Pro. (coming forward indignantly.) 
The word is death ! And what hath life for thee, 
That thou shouldst cling to it thus 1 thou abject 

thing ! 
Whose very soul is moulded to the yoke, 
And stamp'd with servitude. What ! is it life 
Thus at a breeze to start, to school thy voice 
Into low fearful whispers, and to cast 
Pale jealous looks around thee, lest, e'en then, 
Strangers should catch its echo? — Is there aught 
In this so precious, that thy furrow'd cheek 
Is blanch'd with terror at the passing thought 
Of hazarding some few and evil days, 
Which drag thus poorly on % 

Some of the Peas. Away, away ! 
Leave us, for there is danger in thy presence. 

Pro. Why, what is danger ? Are there deeper 
ills 
Than those ye bear thus calmly? Ye have drain'd 
The cup of bitterness till naught remains 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



155 



To fear or shrink from — therefore, be ye strong ! 
Power dwelleth with despair. Why start ye thus 
At words which are but echoes of the thoughts 
Lock'd in your secret souls ? Full well I know 
There is not one among you but hath nursed 
Some proud indignant feeling, which doth make 
One conflict of his life. I know thy wrongs — 
And thine — and thine ; but if within your breast 
There is no chord that vibrates to my voice, 
Then fare ye well. [say on ! 

A Youth {coming forward) No, no ! say on, 
There are still free and fiery hearts e'en here, 
That kindle at thy words. 

Pea. If that indeed 
Thou hast a hope to give us ■ 

Pro. There is hope 
For all who suffer with indignant thoughts 
Which work in silent strength. What ! think ye 

heaven 
O'erlooks the oppressor, if he bear awhile 
His crested head on high 1 I tell you, no ! 
Th' avenger will not sleep. It was an hour 
Of triumph to the conqueror, when our king, 
Our young brave Conradin, in life's fair morn 
On the red scaffold died. Yet not the less 
Is Justice throned above ; and her good time 
Comes rushing on in storms : that royal blood 
Hath lifted an accusing voice from earth, 
And hath been heard. The traces of the past 
Fade in man's heart, but ne'er doth heaven forget. 

Pea. Had we but arms and leaders, we are men 
Who might earn vengeance yet; but wanting these, 
What wouldst thou have us do 1 

Pro. Be vigilant ; 
And when the signal wakes the land, arise ! 
The peasant's arm is strong, and there shall be 
A rich and noble harvest. Fare ye well. 

[Exit Procida. 

1st Pea. This man should be a prophet : how 
he seem'd 
To read our hearts with his dark searching glance 
And aspect of command ! and yet his garb 
Is mean as ours. 

2d Pea. Speak low ; I know him well. 
At first his voice disturb'd me, like a dream 
Of other days ; but I remember now 
His form, seen oft when in my youth I served 
Beneath the banners of our kings ! 'Tis he 
Who hath been exiled and proscribed so long, 
The Count di Procida. 

Pea. And is this he ? 
Then heaven protect him ! for around his steps 
Will many snares be set. 

1st Pea. He comes not thus 



But with some mighty purpose — doubt it not ; 
Perchance to bring us freedom. He is one 
Whose faith, through many a trial, hath been proved 
True to our native princes. But away ! 
The noontide heat is past, and from the seas 
Light gales are wandering through the vineyards ; 

now 
We may resume our toil. Exeunt Peasants. 



Scene II. — The Terrace of a Castle. 

Eribert, Victoria. 

Tit. Have I not told thee, that I bear a heart 
Blighted and cold 1 — Th' affections of my youth 
Lie slumbering in the grave ; their fount is closed, 
And all the soft and playful tenderness 
Which hath its home in woman's breast, ere yet 
Deep wrongs have sear'd it — all is fled from mine. 
Urge me no more. 

Eri. lady ! doth the flower 
That sleeps entomb'd through the long wintry 

storms, 
Unfold its beauty to the breath of spring, 
And shall not woman's heart, from chill despair, 
Wake at love's voice 1 

Vit. Love ! — make love's name thy spell, 
And I am strong ! — the very word calls up 
From the dark past, thoughts, feelings, powers, 

array 'd 
In arms against thee ! Know'st thou whom I loved, 
While my soul's dwelling-place was still on earth 1 
One who was born for empire, and endow'd 
With such high gifts of princely majesty, 
As bow'd all hearts before him ! Was he not 
Brave, royal, beautiful % And such he died ; 
He died ! — hast thou forgotten? — And thou'rt here, 
Thou meet'st my glance with eyes which coldly 

look'd, 
— Coldly ! — nay, rather with triumphant gaze, 
Upon his murder ! Desolate as I am, 
Yet in the mien of thine affianced bride, 
my lost Conradin ! there should be still 
Somewhat of loftiness, which might o'erawe 
The hearts of thine assassins. 

Eri. Haughty dame ! 
If thy proud heart to tenderness be closed, 
Know danger is around thee : thou hast foes 
That seek thy ruin, and my power alone 
Can shield thee from their arts. 

Vit. Provencal, tell 
Thy tale of danger to some happy heart 
Which hath its little world of loved ones round, 
For whom to tremble ; and its tranquil joys 



156 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



That make earth Paradise. I stand alone ; 
— They that are blest may fear. 

Eri. Is there not one 
Who ne'er commands in vain ? Proud lady, bend 
Thy spirit to thy fate ; for know that he, 
Whose car of triumph in its earthquake path, 
O'er the boVd neck of prostrate Sicily, 
Hath borne him to dominion ; he, my king, 
Charles of Anjou, decrees thy hand the boon 
My deeds have well deserved ; and who hath power 
Against his mandates 1 

Vit. Viceroy, tell thy lord 
That, e'en where chains lie heaviest on the land, 
Souls may not all be fetter'd. Oft, ere now, 
Conquerors have rock'd the earth, yet fail'dto tame 
Unto their purposes that restless fire 
Inhabiting man's breast. A spark bursts forth, 
And so they perish ! 'Tis the fate of those 
Who sport with lightning — and it may be his. 
Tell him I fear him not, and thus am free. 
Eri. 'Tis well. Then nerve that lofty heart to 
bear 
The wrath which is not powerless. Yet again 
Bethink thee, lady ! Love may change — hath 

changed 
To vigilant hatred oft, whose sleepless eye 
Still finds what most it seeks for. Fare thee well. 
— Look to it yet ! — To-morrow I return. 

[Exit Eribert. 
Vit. To-morrow ! — Some ere now have slept 
and dreamt 
Of morrows which ne'er dawn'd — or ne'er for them; 
So silently their deep and still repose 
Hath melted into death ! Are there not balms 
In nature's boundless realm, to pour out sleep 
Like this on me ? Yet should my spirit still 
Endure its earthly bonds, till it could bear 
To his a glorious tale of his own isle, [work, 

Free and avenged. — Thou shouldst be now at 
In wrath, my native Etna ! who dost lift 
Thy spiry pillar of dark smoke so high, [still, 
Through the red heaven of sunset ! — sleep'st thou 
With all thy founts of fire, while spoilers tread 
The glowing vales beneath 1 

[Procida enters, disguised. 
Ha ! who art thou, 
Unbidden guest, that with so mute a step 
Dost steal upon me 1 

Pro. One o'er whom hath pass'd 
All that can change man's aspect ! Yet not long 
Shalt thou find safety in forgetfulness. 
I am he, to breathe whose name is perilous, 
Unless thy wealth could bribe the winds to silence. 
— Know'st thou this, lady ] [He shows a ring. 



Vit. Righteous heaven ! the pledge 
Amidst his people from the scaffold thrown 
By him who perish' d, and whose kingly blood 
E'en yet is unatoned. My heart beats high — 
— Oh, welcome, welcome ! thou art Procida, 
Th' Avenger, the Deliverer ! 

Pro. Call me so, 
When my great task is done. Yet who can tell 
If the return'd be welcome 1 Many a heart 
Is changed since last we met. 

Vit. Why dost thou gaze, 
With such a still and solemn earnestness, 
Upon my alter'd mien ? 
Pro. That I may read 
If to the widow'd love of Conradin, 
Or the proud Eribert's triumphant bride, 
I now intrust my fate. 
Vit. Thou, Procida ! 
That thou shouldst wrong me thus ! — prolong 

thy gaze 
Till it hath found an answer. 

Pro. 'Tis enough. 
I find it in thy cheek, whose rapid change 
Is from death's hue to fever's ; in the wild 
Unsettled brightness of thy proud dark eye, 
And in thy wasted form. Ay, 'tis a deep 
And solemn joy, thus in thy looks to trace, 
Instead of youth's gay bloom, the characters 
Of noble suffering : on thy brow the same 
Commanding spirit holds its native state, 
Which could not stoop to vileness. Yet the voice 
Of Fame hath told afar, that thou shouldst wed 
This tyrant Eribert. 

Vit. And told it not 
A tale of insolent love repell'd with scorn — 
Of stern commands and fearful menaces 
Met with indignant courage 1 Procida ! 
It was but now that haughtily I braved 
His sovereign's mandate, which decrees my hand, 
With its fair appanage of wide domains 
And wealthy vassals, a most fitting boon, 
To recompense his crimes. — I smiled — ay, smiled — 
In proud security ; for the high of heart 
Have still a pathway to escape disgrace, 
Though it be dark and lone. 
Pro. Thou shalt not need 
To tread its shadowy mazes. Trust my words : 
I tell thee that a spirit is abroad 
Which will not slumber, till its path be traced 
By deeds of fearful fame. Vittoria, live ! 
It is most meet that thou shouldst live, to see 
The mighty expiation ; for thy heart 
(Forgive me that I wrong'd its faith !) hath nursed 
A high, majestic grief, whose seal is set 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



157 



Deep on thy marble brow. 

Vit. Then thou canst tell 
By gazing on the wither'd rose, that there 
Time, or the blight, hath work'd ! Ay, this is in 
Thy vision's scope : but oh ! the things unseen, 
Untold, undreamt of, which like shadows pass 
Hourly o'er that mysterious world, a mind 
To ruin struck by grief ! Yet doth my soul, 
Far midst its darkness, nurse one soaring hope, 
Wherein is bright vitality. 'Tis to see 
His blood avenged, and his fair heritage, 
My beautiful native land, in glory risen, 
Like a warrior from his slumbers ! 

Pro. Hearst thou not 
With what a deep and ominous moan the voice 
Of our great mountain swells ] There will be soon 
A fearful burst ! Vittoria ! brood no more 
In silence o'er thy sorrows, but go forth 
Amidst thy vassals, (yet be secret still,) 
And let thy breath give nurture to the spark 
Thou'lt find already kindled. I move on 
In shadow, yet awakening in my path 
That which shall startle nations. Fare thee well. 

Vit. When shall we meet again 1 — Are we not 
those [not 

Whom most he loved on earth, and think'st thou 
That love e'en yet shall bring his spirit near, 
While thus we hold communion ] 

Pro. Yes, I feel 
Its breathing influence whilst I look on thee, 
Who wert its light in life. Yet will we not 
Make womanish tears our offering on his tomb ; 
He shall have nobler tribute ! — I must hence, 
But thou shalt soon hear more. Await the time. 
[Exeunt separately. 



Scene III. — Tlie Sea-shore. 
Raimond di Procida, Constance. 

Con. There is a shadow far within your eye, 
Which hath of late been deepening. You were 

wont, 
Upon the clearness of your open brow, 
To wear a brighter spirit, shedding round 
Joy like our southern sun. It is not well, 
If some dark thought be gathering o'er your soul, 
To hide it from affection. Why is this 1 ? 
My Raimond, why is this ? 

Raim. Oh ! from the dreams 
Of youth, sweet Constance, hath not manhood still 
A wild and stormy wakening 1 They depart — 
Light after light, our glorious visions fade, 
The vaguely beautiful ! till earth, unveil' d, 



Lies pale around ; and life's realities 

Press on the soul, from its unfathom'd depth 

Rousing the fiery feelings, and proud thoughts, 

In all their fearful strength ! 'Tis ever thus, 

And doubly so with me ; for I awoke 

With high aspirings, making it a curse 

To breathe where noble minds are bow'd, as here. 

— To breathe ! — It is not breath ! 

Con. I know thy grief, 
— And is 't not mine 1 — for those devoted men 
Doom'd with their life to expiate some wild word, 
Born of the social hour. Oh ! I have knelt, 
E'en at my brother's feet, with fruitless tears, 
Imploring him to spare. His heart is shut 
Against my voice ; yet will I not forsake 
The cause of mercy. 

Raim. Waste not thou thy prayers, 
gentle love ! for them. There's little need 
For pity, though the galling chain be worn 
By some few slaves the less. Let them depart ! 
There is a world beyond the oppressor's reach, 
And thither lies their way. 

Con. Alas ! I see 
That some new wrong hath pierced you to the soul. 

Raim. Pardon, beloved Constance, if my words, 
Fromfeelingshourly stung, have caught, perchance, 
A tone of bitterness. Oh ! when thine eyes, 
With their sweet eloquent though tfulness, are fix'd 
Thus tenderly on mine, I should forget 
All else in their soft beams ; and yet I came 
To tell thee 

Con. What ? What wouldst thou say? Oh speak ! 
Thou wouldst not leave me ! 

Raim. I have cast a cloud, 
The shadow of dark thoughts and ruin'd fortunes, 
O'er thy bright spirit. Haply, were I gone, 
Thou wouldst resume thyself, and dwell once more 
In the clear sunny light of youth and joy, 
E'en as before we met — before we loved ! 

Con. This is but mockery. Well thou know'st 
thy love 
Hath given me nobler being ; made my heart 
A home for all the deep sublimities 
Of strong affection ; and I would not change 
Th' exalted life I draw from that pure source, 
With all its checker'd hues of hope and fear, 
E'en for the brightest calm. Thou most unkind ! 
Have I deserved this ? 

Raim. Oh ! thou hast deserved 
A love less fatal to thy peace than mine. 
Think not 'tis mockery ! But I cannot rest 
To be the scorn'd and trampled thing I am 
In this degraded land. Its very skies, 
That smile as if but festivals were held 



158 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Beneath their cloudless azure, weigh me down 
With a dull sense of bondage, and I pine 
For freedom's charter'd air. I would go forth 
To seek my noble father : he hath been 
Too long a lonely exile, and his name 
Seems fading in the dim obscurity 
Which gathers round my fortunes. 

Con. Must we part 1 
And is it come to this 1 Oh ! I have still 
Deem'd it enough of joy with thee to share 
E'en grief itself. And now ! But this is vain. 
Alas ! too deep, too fond, is woman's love : 
Too full of hope, she casts on troubled waves 
The treasures of her soul ! 

Raim. Oh, speak not thus ! 
Thy gentle and desponding tones fall cold 
Upon my inmost heart. I leave thee but 
To be more worthy of a love like thine; 
For I have dreamt of fame ! A few short years, 
And we may yet be blest. 

Con. A few short years ! 
Less time may well suffice for death and fate 
To work all change on earth; to break the ties 
Which early love had form'd ; and to bow down 
Th' elastic spirit, and to blight each flower 
Strewn in life's crowded path ! But be it so ! 
Be it enough to know that happiness 
Meets thee on other shores. 

Raim. Where'er I roam, 
Thou shalt be with my soul ! Thy soft low voice 
Shall rise upon remembrance, like a strain 
Of music heard in boyhood, bringing back 
Life's morning freshness. Oh ! that there should be 
Things which we love with such deep tenderness, 
But, through that love, to learn how much of woe 
Dwells in one hour like this ! Yet weep thou not ! 
We shall meet soon ; and many days, dear love ! 
Ere I depart. 

Con. Then there's a respite still. 
Days ! — not a day but in its course may bring 
Some strange vicissitude to turn aside 
Th' impending blow we shrink from. Fare thee 

well. {Returning.) 

— Oh, Raimond ! this is not our last farewell ! 
Thou wouldst not so deceive me 1 

Raim. Doubt me not, 
Gentlest and best beloved ! we meet again. 

[Exit Constance. 

Raim. (after a pause.) When shall I breathe in 
freedom, and give scope 
To those untameable and burning thoughts, 
And restless aspirations, which consume 
My heart i' th' land of bondage 1 Oh ! with you, 
Ye everlasting images of power 



And of infinity ! thou blue-rolling deep, 
And you, ye stars ! whose beams are characters 
Wherewith the oracles of fate are traced — 
With you my soul finds room, and casts aside 
The weight that doth oppress her. But my 

thoughts 
Are wandering far ; there should be one to share 
This awful and majestic solitude 
Of sea and heaven with me. 

[Peocida enters unobserved. 
It is the hour 
He named, and yet he comes not. 

Pro. (coming forward.) He is here. 

Raim. Now, thou mysterious stranger — thou, 
whose glance 
Doth fix itself on memory, and pursue 
Thought like a spirit, haunting its lone hours — 
Reveal thyself; what art thou] 

Pro. One whose life 
Hath been a troubled stream, and made its way 
Through rocks and darkness, and a thousand 

storms, 
With still a mighty aim. But now the shades 
Of eve are gathering round me, and I come 
To this, my native land, that I may rest 
Beneath its vines in peace. 

Raim. Seek'st thou for peace ? 
This is no land of peace : unless that deep 
And voiceless terror, which doth freeze men's 

thoughts 
Back to their source, and mantle its pale mien 
With a dull hollow semblance of repose, 
May so be call'd. 

Pro. There are such calms full oft 
Preceding earthquakes. But I have not been 
So vainly school'd by fortune, and inured 
To shape my course on peril's dizzy brink, 
That it should irk my spirit to put on 
Such guise of hush'd submissiveness as best 
May suit the troubled aspect of the times. 

Raim. Why, then, thou 'rt welcome, stranger, 
to the land 
Where most disguise is needful. He were bold 
Who now should wear his thoughts upon his brow 
Beneath Sicilian skies. The brother's eye 
Doth search distrustfully the brother's face ; 
And friends, whose undivided lives have drawn 
From the same past their long remembrances, 
Now meet in terror, or no more ; lest hearts 
Full to o'erflowing, in their social hour, [winds 
Should pour out some rash word, which roving 
Might whisper to our conquerers. This it is, 
To wear a foreign yoke. 

Pro. It matters not 



THE VESPEES OF PALEEMO. 



159 



To him who holds the mastery o'er his spirit, 
And can suppress its workings, till endurance 
Becomes as nature. We can tame ourselves 
To all extremes, and there is that in life 
To which we cling with most tenacious grasp, 
Even when its lofty aims are all reduced 
To the poor common privilege of breathing. 
— Why dost thou turn away 1 

Raim. What wouldst thou with me ? 
I deem'd thee, by th' ascendant soul which lived 
And made its throne on thy commanding brow, 
One of a sovereign nature, which would scorn 
So to abase its high capacities 
For aught on earth. But thou art like the rest. 
What wouldst thou with me ? 

Pro. I would counsel thee. 
Thou must do that which men — ay, valiant men — 
Hourly submit to do ; in the proud court, 
And in the stately camp, and at the board 
Of midnight revellers, whose fiush'd mirth is all 
A strife, won hardly. Where is he whose heart 
Lies bare, through all its foldings, to the gaze 
Of mortal eye 1 If vengeance wait the foe, 
Or fate th' oppressor, 'tis in depths conceal'd 
Beneath a smiling surface. — Youth, I say, 
Keep thy soul down ! Put on a mask ! — 'tis worn 
Alike by power and weakness, and the smooth 
And specious intercourse of life requires 
Its aid in every scene. 

Raim. Away, dissembler ! 
Life hath its high and its ignoble tasks, 
Fitted to every nature. Will the free 
And royal eagle stoop to learn the arts 
By which the serpent wins his spell-bound prey 1 
It is because I will not clothe myself 
In a vile garb of coward semblances, 
That now, e'en now, I struggle with my heart, 
To bid what most I love a long farewell, 
And seek my country on some distant shore, 
Where such things are unknown ! 

Pro. (exultingly.) Why, this is joy: 
After a long conflict with the doubts and fears, 
And the poor subtleties, of meaner minds, 
To meet a spirit, whose bold elastic wing 
Oppression hath not crush'd. High-hearted youth, 
Thy father, should his footsteps e'er again 
Visit these shores 

Raim. My father ! what of him 1 
Speak ! was he known to thee 1 

Pro. In distant lands 
With him I've traversed many a wild, and look'd 
On many a danger ; and the thought that thou 
Wert smiling then in peace, a happy boy, 
Oft through the storm hath cheer'd him. 



Raim. Dost thou deem 
That still he lives ? Oh ! if it be in chains, 
In woe, in poverty's obscurest cell, 
Say but he lives— and I will track his steps 
E'en to earth's verge ! 

Pro. It may be that he lives, 
Though long his name hath ceased to be a word 
Familiar in man's dwellings. But its sound 
May yet be heard ! Eaimond di Procida, 
Eememberest thou thy father 1 

Raim. From my mind 
His form hath faded long, for years have pass'd 
Since he went forth to exile : but a vague, 
Yet powerful image of deep majesty, 
Still dimly gathering round each thought of him, 
Doth claim instinctive reverence ; and my love 
For his inspiring name hath long become 
Part of my being. 

Pro. Eaimond ! doth no voice 
Speak to thy soul, and tell thee whose the arms 
That would enfold thee now ? My son ! my son ! 

Raim. Father ! Oh God ! — my father ! Now 
I know 
Why my heart woke before thee ! 

Pro. Oh ! this hour 
Makes hope reality ; for thou art all 
My dreams had pictured thee ! 

Raim. Yet why so long 
E'en as a stranger hast thou cross'd my paths, 
One nameless and unknown 1 — and yet I felt 
Each pulse within me thrilling to thy voice. 

Pro. Because I would not link thy fate with 
mine, 
Till I could hail the dayspring of that hope 
Which now is gathering round us. Listen, youth ! 
Thou hast told me of a subdued and scorn'd 
And trampled land, whose very soul is bow'd 
And fashion'd to her chains : — but / tell thee 
Of a most generous and devoted land, 
A land of kindling energies ; a land 
Of glorious recollections ! — proudly true 
To the high memory of her ancient kings, 
And rising, in majestic scorn, to cast 
Her alien bondage off ! 

Raim. And where is this 1 

Pro. Here, in our isle, our own fair Sicily ! 
Her spirit is awake, and moving on, 
In its deep silence mightier, to regain 
Her place amongst the nations ; and the hour 
Of that tremendous effort is at hand. [life 

Raim. Can it be thus indeed? Thou pour'st new 
Through all my burning veins ! I am as one 
Awakening from a chill and deathlike sleep 
To the full glorious day. 



160 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Pro. Thou shalt hear more ! 
Thou shalt hear things which would — which will, 

arouse 
The proud free spirits of our ancestors 
E'en from their marble rest. Yet mark me well ! 
Be secret ! — for along my destined path 
I yet must darkly move. Now, follow me, 
And join a band of men, in whose high hearts 
There lies a nation's strength. 

Raim. My noble father ! 
Thy words have given me all for which I pined — 
An aim, a hope, a purpose ! And the blood 
Doth rush in warmer currents through my veins, 
As a bright fountain from its icy bonds 
By the quick sun-stroke freed. 

Pro. Ay, this is well ! 
Such natures burst men's chains ! — Now follow me. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — Apartment in a Palace. 

Eribert, Constance. 

Con. Will you not hear me? Oh ! that they 

who need 
Hourly forgiveness — they who do but live 
While mercy's voice, beyond th' eternal stars, 
Wins the great Judge to listen, should be thus, 
In their vain exercise of pageant power, 
Hard and relentless ! Gentle brother ! yet 
'Tis in your choice to imitate that heaven, 
Whose noblest joy is pardon. 

Eri. 'Tis too late. 
You have a soft and moving voice, which pleads 
With eloquent melody — but they must die. 
Con. What ! — die ! — for words ? — for breath 

which leaves no trace 
To sully the pure air wherewith it blends, 
And is, being utter' d, gone ? Why, 'twere enough 
For such a venial fault to be deprived 
One little day of man's free heritage, [deem 

Heaven's warm and sunny light ! Oh ! if you 
That evil harbours in their souls, at least 
Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest, 
Shall bid stern justice wake. 

Eri. I am not one 
Of those weak spirits that timorously keep watch 
For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues 
Of virtue for their deeds. My school hath been 
Where power sits crown'd and arm'd. And, mark 

me, sister ! 
To a distrustful nature it might seem 



Strange, that your lips thus earnestly should plead 
For these Sicilian rebels. O'er my being 
Suspicion holds no power. And yet, take note-^ 
I have said, and they must die. 

Con. Have you no fear? 

Eri. Of what V— that heaven should fall? 

Con. No ! — But that earth 
Should arm in madness. Brother ! I have seen 
Dark eyes bent on you, e'en midst festal throngs, 
With such deep hatred settled in their glance, 
My heart hath died within me. 

Eri. Am I then 
To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a girl, 
A dreaming girl, hath trembled at a look ? 

Con. Oh ! looks are no illusions, when the soul, 
Which may not speak in words, can find no way 
But theirs to liberty ! Have not these men 
Brave sons or noble brothers ? 

Eri. Yes ! whose name 
It rests with me to make a word of fear — 
A sound forbidden midst the haunts of men. 

Con. But not forgotten ! Ah ! beware, beware ! 
— Nay, look not sternly on me. There is one 
Of that devoted band, who yet will need 
Years to be ripe for death. He is a youth, 
A very boy, on whose unshaded cheek 
The spring-time glow is lingering. 'Twas but now 
His mother left me, with a timid hope 
Just dawning in her breast : and I — I dared 
To foster its faint spark. You smile ! — Oh ! then 
He will be saved ! 

Eri. Nay, I but smiled to think 
What a fond fool is Hope ! She may be taught 
To deem that the great sun will change his course 
To work her pleasure, or the tomb give back 
Its inmates to her arms. In sooth, 'tis strange ! 
Yet, with your pitying heart, you should not thus 
Have mock'd the boy's sad mother : I have said — 
You should not thus have mock'd her ! — Now, 
farewell ! [Exit Eribert. 

Con. brother ! hard of heart ! — for deeds like 
these 
There must be fearful chastening, if on high 
Justice doth hold her state. And I must tell 
Yon desolate mother that her fair young son 
Is thus to perish ! Haply the dread tale 
May slay her too — for heaven is merciful. 
— 'Twill be a bitter task ! [Exit Constance. 



Scene II. — A ruined Tower surrounded by woods. 
Procida, Vittoria. 
Pro. Thy vassals are prepared, then ? 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



161 



Vit. Yes; they wait 
Thy summons to their task. 

Pro. Keep the flame bright, 
But hidden till this hour. Wouldst thou dare, lady, 
To join our councils at the night's mid watch, 
In the lone cavern by the rock-hewn cross 1 

Vit. What should I shrink from ? 

Pro. Oh ! the forest-paths 
Are dim and wild, e'en when the sunshine streams 
Through their high arches ; but when powerful 

night 
Comes, with her cloudy phantoms, and her pale 
Uncertain moonbeams, and the hollow sounds 
Of her mysterious winds ; their aspect then 
Is of another and more fearful world — 
A realm of indistinct and shadowy forms, [this — 
Waking strange thoughts almost too much for 
Our frail terrestrial nature. 

Vit. Well I know [abodes 

All this, and more. Such scenes have been th' 
Where through the silence of my soul have pass'd 
Voices and visions from the sphere of those 
That have to die no more ! Nay, doubt it not ! 
If such unearthly intercourse hath e'er 
Been granted to our nature, 'tis to hearts 
Whose love is with the dead. They, they alone, 
Unmadden'd could sustain the fearful joy 
And glory of its trances ! At the hour 
Which makes guilt tremulous, and peoples earth 
And air with infinite viewless multitudes, 
I will be with thee, Procida. 

Pro. Thy presence 
Will kindle nobler thoughts, and, in the souls 
Of suffering and indignant men, arouse 
That which may strengthen our majestic cause 
With yet a deeper power. Know'st thou the spot? 

Vit. Full well. There is no scene so wild and 
lone, 
In these dim woods, but I have visited 
Its tangled shades. 

Pro. At midnight, then, we meet. 

[Exit Procida. 

Vit. Why should I fear ] Thou wilt be with 
me — thou, 
Th' immortal dream and shadow of my soid, 
Spirit of him I love ! that meet'st me still 
In loneliness and silence ; in the noon 
Of the wild night, and in the forest depths, 
Known but to me ; for whom thou giVst the winds 
And sighing leaves a cadence of thy voice, 
Till my heart faints with that o'erthrilling joy ! 
■ — Thou wilt be with me there, and lend my lips 
Words, fiery words, to flush dark cheeks with shame 
That thou art unavenged ! [Exit Vittoria. 



Scene III. — A Chapel, with a monument on which 
is laid a sword. — Moonlight. 

Procida, Raimond, Montalba. 

Mon. And know you not my story 1 

Pro. In the lands 
Where I have been a wanderer, your deep wrongs 
Were number'd with our country's ; but their tale 
Came only in faint echoes to mine ear. 
I would fain hear it now. 

Mon. Hark ! while you spoke, 
There was a voice-like murmur in the breeze, 
Which even like death came o'er me. 'Twas a night 
Like this, of clouds contending with the moon, 
A night of sweeping winds, of rustling leaves, 
And swift wild shadows floating o'er the earth, 
Clothed with a phantom life, when, after years 
Of battle and captivity, I spurr'd [dreams 

My good steed homewards. Oh ! what lovely 
Rose on my spirit ! There were tears and smiles, 
But all of joy ! And there were bounding steps, 
And clinging arms, whose passionate clasp of love 
Doth twine so fondly round the warrior's neck 
When his plumed helm is doff 'd. — Hence, feeble 
thoughts ! [mine ! 

— I am sterner now, yet once such dreams were 

Raim. And were they realised 1 

Mon. Youth ! ask me not, 
But listen ! I drew near my own fair home — 
There was no light along its walls, no sound 
Of bugle pealing from the watch-tower's height 
At my approach, although my trampling steed 
Made the earth ring, yet the wide gates were thrown 
All open. Then my heart misgave me first, 
And on the threshold of my silent hall 
I paused a moment, and the wind swept by 
With the same deep and dirge-like tone which 

pierced 
My soul e'en now ! I call'd — my struggling voice 
Gave utterance to my wife's, my children's names. 
They answer'd not. I roused my failing strength, 
And wildly rush'd within. — And they were there. 

Raim. And was all well 1 

Mon. Ay, well ! — for death is well : 
And they were all at rest ! I see them yet, 
Pale in their innocent beauty, which had fail'd 
To stay the assassin's arm ! 

Raim. Oh, righteous Heaven ! 
Who had done this 1 

Mon. Who ! 

Pro. Canst thou question, who ? 
Whom hath the earth to perpetrate such deeds, 
In the cold-blooded revelry of crime, 
But those whose yoke is on us % 



162 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Raim. Man of woe ! 
What words hath pity for despair like thine ? 

Mon. Pity ! — fond youth ! — My soul disdains 
the grief 
Which doth unbosom its deep secrecies 
To ask a vain companionship of tears, 
And so to be relieved ! 

Pro. For woes like these 
There is no sympathy but vengeance. 

Mon. None ! 
Therefore I brought you hither, that your hearts 
Might catch the spirit of the scene ! Look round ! 
We are in th' awful presence of the dead ; 
Within yon tomb they sleep whose gentle blood 
Weighs down the murderer's soul. They sleep ! — 

but I 
Am wakeful o'er their dust ! I laid my sword, 
Without its sheath, on their sepulchral stone, 
As on an altar ; and the eternal stars, 
And heaven, and night, bore witness to my vow, 
No more to wield it save in one great cause — 
The vengeance of the grave ! And now the hour 
Of that atonement comes ! 

[He takes the sword from the tomb. 

Raim. My spirit burns ! 
And my full heart almost to bursting swells. 
—Oh, for the day of battle ! 

Pro. Raimond, they 
Whose souls are dark with guiltless blood must die, 
— But not in battle. 

Raim. How, my father 1 

Pro. No ! 
Look on that sepulchre, and it will teach 
Another lesson. But the appointed hour 
Advances. Thou wilt join our chosen band, 
Noble Montalba 1 

Mon. Leave me for a time, 
That I may calm my soul by intercourse 
With the still dead, before I mix with men 
And with their passions. I have nursed for years, 
In silence and in solitude, the flame 
Which doth consume me ; and it is not used 
Thus to be look'd or breathed on. Procida ! 
I would be tranquil — or appear so — ere 
I join your brave confederates. Through my heart 
There struck a pang— but it will soon have pass'd. 

Pro. Remember ! — in the cavern by the cross. 
Now follow me, my son. 

[Exeunt Procida and Raimond. 
Mon. (after a pause, leaning on the tomb.) [life 

Said he, " My son ? " Now, why should this man's 
Go down in hope, thus resting on a son, 
And I be desolate 1 How strange a sound 
Was that — " my son /" I had a boy, who might 



Have worn as free a soul upon his brow [him 
As doth this youth. Why should the thought of 
Thus haunt me 1 When I tread the peopled ways 
Of life again, I shall be pass'd each hour 
By fathers with their children, and I must 
Learn calmly to look on. Methinks 'twere now 
A gloomy consolation to behold 
All men bereft as I am ! But away, [hearts, 

Vain thoughts ! — One task is left for blighted 
And it shall be fulfill'd. Exit Montalba. 

Scene IV.— Entrance of a Cave, surrounded by 
roclcs and forests. A rude Cross seen among 
the rocks. 

Procdda, Raimond. 

Pro. And is it thus, beneath the solemn skies 
Of midnight, and in solitary caves, 
Where the wild forest creatures make their lair — 
Is't thus the chiefs of Sicily must hold 
The councils of their country 1 

Raim. Why, such scenes 
In their primeval majesty, beheld 
Thus by faint starlight and the partial glare 
Of the red-streaming lava, will inspire 
Far deeper thoughts than pillar'd halls, wherein 
Statesmen hold weary vigils. Are we not 
O'ershadow'd by that Etna, which of old 
With its dread prophecies hath struck dismay 
Through tyrants' hearts, and bade them seek a 
home [now, 

In other climes 1 Hark ! from its depths, e'en 
What hollow moans are sent ! 



Enter Montalba, Guido, 



oilier Sicilians. 



Pro. Welcome, my brave associates ! We can 
share [haunt 

The wolf's wild freedom here ! Th' oppressor's 
Is not midst rocks and caves. Are we all met 1 

Sicilians. All, all ! 

Pro. The torchlight, sway'd by every gust, 
But dimly shows your features. — Where is he 
Who from his battles had return'd to breathe 
Once more without a corslet, and to meet 
The voices and the footsteps and the smiles 
Blent with his dreams of home ] Of that dark tale 
The rest is known to vengeance ! Art thou here, 
With thy deep wrongs and resolute despair, 
Childless Montalba ? 

Mon. (advancing.) He is at thy side. 
Call on that desolate father in the hour 
When his revenge is nigh. 

Pro. Thou, too, come forth, 
From thine own halls an exile ! Dost thou make 



THE VESPEES OF PALEEMO. 



163 



The mountain-fastnesses thy dwelling still, 
While hostile banners o'er thy rampart walls 
Wave their proud blazonry 1 

1st Sicilian. Even so. I stood 
Last night before my own ancestral towers 
An unknown outcast, while the tempest beat 
On my bare head. What reck'd it ] There was joy 
Within, and revelry ; the festive lamps 
Were streaming from each turret, and gay songs 
I' th' stranger's tongue, made mirth. They little 

deem'd 
Who heard their melodies ! But there are thoughts 
Best nurtured in the wild ; there are dread vows 
Known to the mountain echoes. Procida ! 
Call on the outcast, when revenge is nigh. 

Pro. I knew a young Sicilian — one whose heart 
Should be all fire. On that most guilty day 
When, with our martyr'd Conradin, the flower 
Of the land's knighthood perish'd ; he of whom 
I speak, a weeping boy, whose innocent tears 
Melted a thousand hearts that dared not aid, 
Stood by the scaffold with extended arms, 
Calling upon his father, whose last look 
Turn'd full on him its parting agony. 
The father's blood gush'd o'er him ! and the boy 
Then dried his tears, and with a kindling eye, 
And a proud flush on his young cheek, look'd up 
To the bright heaven. — Doth he remember still 
That bitter hour? 

2d Sicilian. He bears a sheathless sword ! 
— Call on the orphan when revenge is nigh, [men 

Pro. Our band shows gallantly — but there are 
Who should be with us now, had they not dared 
In some wild moment of festivity 
To give their full hearts way, and breathe a wish 
For freedom ! — and some traitor — it might be 
A breeze perchance — bore the forbidden sound 
To Eribert : so they must die — unless 
Fate (who at times is wayward) should select 
Some other victim first ! But have they not 
Brothers or sons among us 1 

Gui. Look on me ! 
I have a brother — a young high-soul'd boy, 
And beautiful as a sculptor's dream, with brow 
That wears amidst its dark rich curls, the stamp 
Of inborn nobleness. In truth, he is 
A glorious creature ! But his doom is seal'd 
With theirs of whom ye spoke ; and I have knelt — 
Ay, scorn me not ! 'twas for his fife — I knelt 
E'en at the viceroy's feet, and he put on 
That heartless laugh of cold malignity 
We know so well, and spurn'd me. But the stain 
Of shame like this takes blood to wash it off, 
And thus it shall be cancell'd ! Call on me, 



When the stern moment of revenge is nigh. 

Pro. I call upon thee now! The land's high soul 
Is roused, and moving onward, like a breeze 
Or a swift sunbeam, kindling nature's hues 
To deeper life before it. In his chains, 
The peasant dreams of freedom ! — Ay, 'tis thus 
Oppression fans th' imperishable flame 
With most unconscious hands. No praise be hers 
For what she blindly works ! When slavery's cup 
O'erflows its bounds, the creeping poison, meant 
To dull our senses, through each burning vein 
Pours fever, lending a delirious strength 
To burst man's fetters. And they shall be burst ! 
I have hoped, when hope seem'd frenzy ; but a 

power 
Abides in human will, when bent with strong 
Unswerving energy on one great aim, 
To make and rule its fortunes ! I have been 
A wanderer in the fulness of my years, 
A restless pilgrim of the earth and seas, 
Gathering the generous thoughts of other lands, 
To aid our holy cause. And aid is near : 
But we must give the signal. Now, before 
The majesty of yon pure heaven, whose eye 
Is on our hearts — whose righteous arm befriends 
The arm that strikes for freedom— speak ! decree 
The fate of our oppressors. 

Mon. Let them fall 
When dreaming least of peril ! — when the heart, 
Basking in sunny pleasure, doth forget [sword 
That hate may smile, but sleeps not. Hide the 
With a thick veil of myrtle; and in halls 
Of banqueting, where the full wine-cup shines 
Eed in the festal torchlight, meet we there, 
And bid them welcome to the feast of death. 

Pro. Thy voice is low and broken, and thy words 
Scarce meet our ears. 

Mon. Why, then, I must repeat 
Their import. Let th' avenging sword burst forth 
In some free festal hour — and woe to him 
Who first shall spare ! 

Raim. Must innocence and guilt 
Perish alike % 

Mon. Who talks of innocence 1 
When hath their hand been stay'd for innocence 1 
Let them all perish ! — Heaven will choose its own. 
Why should their children live? The earthquake 

whelms 
Its undistinguish'd thousands, making graves 
Of peopled cities in its path — and this 
Is heaven's dread justice — ay, and it is well ! 
Why then should we be tender, when the skies 
Deal thus with man ? What if the infant bleed 1 
Is there not power to hush the mother's pangs 1 



164 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



What if the youthful bride perchance should fall 
In her triumphant beauty? Should we pause ] 
As if death were not mercy to the pangs 
Which make our lives the records of our woes 1 
Let them all perish ! And if one be found 
Amidst our band to stay th' avenging steel 
For pity, or remorse, or boyish love, 
Then be his doom as theirs ! [A pause. 

Why gaze ye thus ? 
Brethren, what means your silence ! 

Sicilians. Be it so ! 
If one among us stay th' avenging steel 
For love or pity, be his doom as theirs ! 
Pledge we our faith to this ! [to this ! 

Maim, (rushing forward indignantly.) Our faith 
No ! I but dreamt I heard it ! Can it be ? 
My countrymen, my father ! — is it thus 
That freedom should be won 1 Awake ! — awake 
To loftier thoughts ! Lift up exultingly, 
On the crown'd heights and to the sweeping winds, 
Your glorious banner ! Let your trumpet's blast 
Make the tombs thrill with echoes ! Call aloud, 
Proclaim from all your hills, the land shall bear 
The stranger's yoke no longer ! What is he 
Who carries on his practised lip a smile, 
Beneath his vest a dagger, which but waits 
Till the heart bounds with joy, to still its beatings'] 
That which our nature's instinct doth recoil from, 
And our blood curdle at — ay, yours and mine — ■ 
A murderer ! Heard ye 1 Shall that name with 

ours 
Go down to after days ? friends ! a cause 
Like that for which we rise, hath made bright 

names 
Of th' elder time as rallying-words to men — 
Sounds full of might and immortality ! 
And shall not ours be such ] 

Mon. Fond dreamer, peace ! 
Fame ! What is fame ] Will our unconscious dust 
Start into thrilling rapture from the grave ! 
At the vain breath of praise 1 I tell thee, youth 
Our souls are parch'd with agonising thirst, 
Which must be quench'd, though death were in 

the draught : 
We must have vengeance, for our foes have left 
No other joy unblighted. 

Pro. my son ! 
The time is past for such high dreams as thine. 
Thou know' st not whom we deal with : knightly faith 
And chivalrous honour are but things whereon 
They cast disdainful pity. We must meet 
Falsehood with wiles, and insult with revenge. 
And, for our names — whate'er the deeds by which 
We burst our bondage — is it not enough 



That in the chronicle of days to come, 

We, through a bright " For Ever," shall be call'd 

The men who saved their country ] 

Raim. Many a land 
Hath bow'd beneath the yoke, and then arisen 
As a strong lion rending silken bonds, 
And on the open field, before high heaven, 
Won such majestic vengeance as hath made 
Its name a power on earth. Ay, nations own 
It is enough of glory to be call'd 
The children of the mighty, who redeem'd 
Their native soil — but not by means like these. 

Mon. I have no children. Of Montalba's blood 
Not one red drop doth circle through the veins 
Of aught that breathes ? Why, what have /to do 
With far futurity 1 My spirit lives 
But in the past. Away ! when thou dost stand 
On this fair earth as doth a blasted tree 
Which the warm sun revives not, then return, 
Strong in thy desolation : but till then, 
Thou art not for our purpose ; we have need 
Of more unshrinking hearts. 

Raim. Montalba ! know 
I shrink from crime alone. Oh ! if my voice 
Might yet have power among you, I would say, 
Associates, leaders, he avenged ! but yet 
As knights, as warriors ! 

Mon. Peace ! have we not borne 
Th' indelible taint of contumely and chains 1 
We are not knights and warriors. Our bright 

crests 
Have been defiled and trampled to the earth. 
Boy ! we are slaves — and our revenge shall be 
Deep as a slave's disgrace. 

Raim. Why, then, farewell : 
I leave you to your counsels. He that still 
Would hold his lofty nature undebased, 
And his name pure, were but a loiterer here. 

Pro. And is it thus indeed 1 — dost thou forsake 
Our cause, my son ! 

Raim. father ! what proud hopes 
This hour hath blighted ! Yet, whate'er betide, 
It is a noble privilege to look up 
Fearless in heaven's bright face — and this is mine, 
And shall be still. [Exit Raimond. 

Pro. He's gone ! Why, let it be ! 
I trust our Sicily hath many a son 
Valiant as mine. Associates ! 'tis decreed 
Our foes shall perish. We have but to name 
The hour, the scene, the signal. 

Mon. It should be 
In the full city, when some festival 
Hath gather'd throngs, and lull'd infatuate hearts 
To brief security. Hark ! is there not 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



165 



A sound of hurrying footsteps on the breeze 1 
We are betray' d. — Who art thou 1 

Vittoria enters. 

Pro. One alone 
Should be thus daring. Lady, lift the veil 
That shades thy noble brow. 

[She raises her veil — the Sicilians draw bach 
with respect. 

Sicilians. Th' affianced bride 
Of our lost king ! 

Pro. And more, Montalba ; know 
Within this form there dwells a soul as high 
As warriors in their battles e'er have proved, 
Or patriots on the scaffold. 

Vit. Valiant men ! 
I come to ask your aid. You see me, one 
Whose widow'd youth hath all been consecrate 
To a proud sorrow, and whose life is held 
In token and memorial of the dead. 
Say, is it meet that lingering thus on earth, 
But to behold one great atonement made, 
And keep one name from fading in men's hearts, 
A tyrant's will shoxdd force me to profane 
Heaven's altar with unhallow'd vows — and live 
Stung by the keen unutterable scorn 
Of my own bosom, live — another's bride 1 [lady ! 

Sicilians. Never! oh, never ! Fear not, noble 
Worthy of Conradin ! 

Vit. Yet hear me still — 
His bride, that Eribert's, who notes our tears 
With his insulting eye of cold derision, [works, 
And, could he pierce the depths where feeling 
Would number e'en our agonies as crimes. 
— Say, is this meet ? 

Gui. We deem'd these nuptials, lady, 
Thy willing choice ; but 'tis a joy to find 
Thou'rt noble still. Fear not ; by all our wrongs, 
This shall not be. 

Pro. Vittoria, thou art come 
To ask our aid — but we have need of thine. 
Know, the completion of our high designs 
Requires — a festival ; and it must be 
Thy bridal ! 

Vit. Procida ! 

Pro. Nay, start not thus. 
'Tis no hard task to bind your raven hair 
With festal garlands, and to bid the song 
Rise, and the wine-cup mantle. No — nor yet 
To meet your suitor at the glittering shrine, 
Where death, not love, awaits him ! 

Vit. Can my soul 
Dissemble thus 1 

Pro. We have no other means 



Of winning our great birthright back from those 
Who have usurp'd it, than so lulling them 
Into vain confidence, that they may deem 
All wrongs forgot ; and this may be best done 
By what I ask of thee. 

Mon. Then we will mix 
With the flush'd revellers, making their gay feast 
The harvest of the grave. 

Vit. A bridal day ! 
—Must it be so 1 Then, chiefs of Sicily, 
I bid you to my nuptials ! but be there [alone 
With your bright swords unsheathed, for thus 
My guests should be adorn'd. 

Pro. And let thy banquet 
Be soon announced ; for there are noble men 
Sentenced to die, for whom we fain would pur- 
chase 
Reprieve with other blood. 

Vit. Be it then the day 
Preceding that appointed for their doom, [boasts 

Gui. My brother ! thou shalt live ! Oppression 
No gift of prophecy ! — It but remains 
To name our signal, chiefs ! 

Mon. The Vesper-bell ! 

Pro. Even so — the Vesper-bell, whose deep- 
toned peal 
Is heard o'er land and wave. Part of our band, 
Wearing the guise of antic revelry, 
Shall enter, as in some fantastic pageant, 
The halls of Eribert ; and at the hour 
Devoted to the sword's tremendous task, 
I follow with the rest. The Vesper-bell ! 
That sound shall wake th' avenger ; for 'tis come, 
The time when power is in a voice, a breath, 
To burst the spell which bound us. But the night 
Is waning, with her stars, which one by one 
Warn us to part. Friends to your homes ! — your 

homes ? 
That name is yet to win. Away ! prepare 
For our next meeting in Palermo's walls. 
The Vesper-bell ! Remember ! 

Sicilians. Fear us not. 
The Vesper-bell ! [Exeunt omnes. 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — Apartment in a Palace. 

Eribert, Vittoria. 

Vit. Speak not of love — it is a word with deep 
Strange magic in its melancholy sound, 
To summon up the dead ; and they should rest, 
At such an hour, forgotten. There are things 



166 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



We must throw from us, when the heart would 

gather 
Strength to fulfil its settled purposes ; 
Therefore, no more of love ! But if to robe 
This form in bridal ornaments — to smile 
(I can smile yet) at thy gay feast, and stand 
At th' altar by thy side ; — if this be deem'd 
Enough, it shall be done. 

Eri. My fortune's star [love, 

Doth rule th' ascendant still ! (Apart.) — If not of 
Then pardon, lady, that I speak of joy, 
And with exulting heart 

Vit. There is no joy ! 
— Who shall look through the far futurity, 
And, as the shadowy visions of events 
Develop on his gaze, midst their dim throng, 
Dare, with oracular mien, to point, and say, 
' ' This will bring happiness % " Who shall do this % 
Who, thou and I, and all ! There's One, who sits 
In His own bright tranquillity enthroned, 
High o'er all storms, and looking far beyond 
Their thickest clouds ! but we, from whose dull 

eyes 
A grain of dust hides the great sun — e'en we 
Usurp his attributes, and talk, as seers, 
Of future joy and grief ! 

Eri. Thy words are strange. 
Yet will I hope that peace at length shall settle 
Upon thy troubled heart, and add soft grace 
To thy majestic beauty. Fair Vittoria ! 
Oh ! if my cares 

Vit. I know a day shall come 
Of peace to all. Ev'n from my darken'd spirit 
Soon shall each restless wish be exorcised, 
Which haunts it now, and I shall then lie down 
Serenely to repose. Of this no more. 
I have a boon to ask. 

Eri. Command my power, 
And deem it thus most honour'd. 

Vit. Have I then 
Soar'd such an eagle pitch, as to command 
The mighty Eribert 1 — And yet 'tis meet ; 
For I bethink me now, I should have worn 
A crown upon this forehead. Generous lord ! 
Since thus you give me freedom, know, there is 
An hour I have loved from childhood, and a sound 
Whose tones, o'er earth and ocean sweetly bearing 
A sense of deep repose, have lull'd me oft 
To peace — which is forgetfulness ; I mean 
The Vesper-bell. I pray you let it be 
The summons to our bridal. Hear you not ? 
To our fair bridal ! 

Eri. Lady, let your will 
Appoint each circumstance. I am too bless'd, 



Proving my homage thus. 

Vit. Why, then, 'tis mine 
To rule the glorious fortunes of the day, 
And I may be content. Yet much remains 
For thought to brood on, and I would be left 
Alone with my resolves. Kind Eribert ! 
(Whom I command so absolutely,) now 
Part we a few brief hours ; and doubt not, when 
I'm at thy side once more, but I shall stand 
There — to the last ! 

Eri. Your smiles are troubled, lady — 
May they ere long be brighter ! Time will seem 
Slow till the Vesper-bell. 

Vit. 'Tis lovers' phrase 
To say — Time lags ; and therefore meet for you ; 
But with an equal pace the hours move on, 
Whether they bear, on their swift silent wing, 
Pleasure or — fate. 

Eri. Be not so full of thought 
On such a day. Behold, the skies themselves 
Look on my joy with a triumphant smile 
Unshadow'd by a cloud. 

Vit. 'Tis very meet 
That heaven (which loves the just) should wear 

a smile 
In honour of his fortunes. Now, my lord, 
Forgive me if I say farewell until 
Th' appointed hour. 

Eri. Lady, a brief farewell. 

[Exeunt separately. 

Scene II. — The Sea-shore. 
Pkocida, Raimond. 

Pro. And dost thou still refuse to share the 
glory 
Of this, our daring enterprise 1 

Raim. father ! 
I, too, have dreamt of glory, and the word 
Hath to my soul been as a trumpet's voice, 
Making my nature sleepless. But the deeds 
Whereby 'twas won — the high exploits, whose tale 
Bids the heart burn, were of another cast 
Than such as thou requirest. 

Pro. Every deed 
Hath sanctity, if bearing for its aim 
The freedom of our country ; and the sword 
Alike is honour'd in the patriot's hand, [gave 

Searching, midst warrior hosts, the heart which 
Oppression birth, or flashing through the gloom 
Of the still chamber, o'er its troubled couch, 
At dead of night. 

Raim. (turning away) There is no path but one 
For noble natures. 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



167 



Pro. Wouldst thou ask the man 
Who to the earth hath dash'd a nation's chains, 
Rent as with heaven's own lightning, by what means 
The glorious end was wOn 1 Go, swell th' acclaim ! 
Bid the deliverer, hail ! and if his path, 
To that most bright and sovereign destiny, 
Hath led o'er trampled thousands, be it call'd 
A stern necessity, but not a crime ! 

Raim. Father ! my soul yet kindlesatthethought 
Of nobler lessons, in my boyhood learn'd, 
Ev'n from thy voice. The high remembrances 
Of other days are stirring in the heart [men 

Where thou didst plant them ; and they speak of 
Who needed no vain sophistry to gild [mine ! 
Acts that would bear heaven's light — and such be 
father ! is it yet too late to draw 
The praise and blessing of all valiant hearts 
On our most righteous cause ? 

Pro. What wouldst thou do? 

Raim. I would go forth, and rouse th' indignant 
land 
To generous combat. Why should freedom strike 
Mantled with darkness ? Is there not more strength 
Ev'n in the waving of her single arm 
Than hosts can wield against her ? I would rouse 
That spirit whose fire doth press resistless on 
To its proud sphere — the stormy field of fight ! 

Pro. Ay ! and give time and warning to the foe 
To gather all his might ! It is too late. 
There is a work to be this eve begun 
When rings the Vesper-bell ; and, long before 
To-morrow's sun hathreach'd i'th' noonday heaven 
His throne of burning glory, every sound 
Of the Provencal tongue within our walls, 
As by one thunderstroke — (you are pale, my son) — 
Shall be for ever silenced ! 

Raim. What ! such sounds 
As falter on the lip of infancy, 
In its imperfect utterance ? or are breathed 
By the fond mother as she lulls her babe ? 
Or in sweet hymns, upon the twilight air 
Pour'd by the timid maid ? Must all alike 
Be still'd in death? and wouldst thou tell my heart 
There is no crime in this 1 

Pro. Since thou dost feel 
Such horror of our purpose, in thy power 
Are means that might avert it. 

Raim. Speak ! oh speak ! 

Pro. How would those rescued thousands bless 
thy name 
Shouldst thou betray us ! 

Raim. Father ! I can bear — 
Ay, proudly woo — the keenest questioning 
Of thy soul-gifted eye, which almost seems 



To claim a part of heaven's dread royalty, 
— The power that searches thought. 

Pro. (after a pause.) Thou hast a brow 
Clear as the day — and yet I doubt thee, Raimond ! 
Whether it be that I have learn'd distrust 
From a long look through man's deep-folded heart ; 
Whether my paths have been so seldom cross'd 
By honour and fair mercy, that they seem 
But beautiful deceptions, meeting thus 
My unaccustom'd gaze : howe'er it be — 
I doubt thee ! See thou waver not — take heed. 
Time lifts the veil from all things ! [Exit Procida. 

Raim. And 'tis thus 
Youth fades from off our spirit ; and the robes 
Of beauty and of majesty, wherewith 
We clothed our idols, drop ! Oh, bitter day ! 
When, at the crushing of our glorious world, 
We start, and find men thus ! Yet be it so ! 
Is not my soul still powerful in itself 
To realise its dreams ? Ay, shrinking not 
From the pure eye of heaven, my brow may well 
Undaunted meet my father's. But, away ! [yet 
Thou shalt be saved, sweet Constance ! — Love is 
Mightier than vengeance. [Exit Raimond. 



Scene III. — Gardens of a Palace. 
Constance alone. 

Con. There was a time when my thoughts 
wander'd not 
Beyond these fairy scenes ! — when but to catch 
The languid fragrance of the southern breeze 
From the rich flowering citrons, or to rest, 
Dreaming of some wild legend, in the shade 
Of the dark laurel foliage, was enough 
Of happiness. How have these calm delights 
Fled from before one passion, as the dews, 
The delicate gems of morning, are exhaled 
By the great sun ! [Raimond enters. 

Raimond ! oh ! now thou'rt come — 
I read it in thy look — to say farewell 
For the last time — the last ! 

Raim. No, best beloved ! 
I come to tell thee there is now no power 
To part us but in death. 

Con. I have dreamt of joy, 
But never aught like this. Speak yet again ! 
Say we shall part no more ! 

Raim. No more — if love 
Can strive with darker spirits ; and he is strong 
In his immortal nature ! All is changed 
Since last we met. My father — keep the tale 
Secret from all, and most of all, my Constance, 



168 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



From Eribert — my father is return'd : 
I leave thee not. 

Con. Thy father ! blessed sound ! 
Good angels be his guard ! Oh ! if he knew 
How my soul clings to thine, he could not hate 
Even a Provencal maid ! Thy father ! — now 
Thy soul will be at peace, and I shall see 
The sunny happiness of earlier days 
Look from thy brow once more ! But how is this 1 
Thine eye reflects not the glad soul of mine ; 
And in thy look is that which ill befits 
A tale of joy. 

Raim. A dream is on my souL [ing 

I see a sluraberer, crown'd with flowers, and smil- 
As in delighted visions, on the brink 
Of a dread chasm ; and this strange fantasy 
Hath cast so deep a shadow o'er my thoughts, 
I cannot but be sad. 

Con. Why, let me sing 
One of the sweet wild strains you love so well, 
And this will banish it. 

Raim. It may not be. 
gentle Constance ! go not forth to-day : 
Such dreams are ominous. 

Con. Have you then forgot 
My brother's nuptial feast 1 I must be one 
Of the gay train attending to the shrine 
His stately bride. In sooth, my step of joy [love'? 
Will print earth lightly now. What fear'st thou, 
Look all around ! the blue transparent skies, 
And sunbeams pouring a more buoyant life 
Through each glad thrilling vein, will brightly chase 
All thought of evil. Why, the very air [realms 
Breathes of delight ! Through all its glowing 
Doth music blend with fragrance ; and e'en here 
The city's voice of jubilee is heard, 
Till each light leaf seems trembling unto sounds 
Of human joy ! 

Raim. There lie far deeper things — 
Things that may darken thought for life, beneath 
That city's festive semblance. I have pass'd 
Through the glad multitudes, and I have mark'd 
A stern intelligence in meeting eyes, 
Which deem'd their flash unnoticed, and a quick, 
Suspicious vigilance, too intent to clothe 
Its mien with carelessness ; and now and then, 
A hurrying start, a whisper, or a hand 
Pointing by stealth to some one, singled out 
Amidst the reckless throng. O'er all is spread 
A mantling flush of revelry, which may hide 
Much from unpractised eyes ; but lighter signs 
Have been prophetic oft. 

Con. I tremble ! — Raimond ! 
What may these things portend 1 



Raim. It was a day 
Of festival like this ; the city sent 
Up through her sunny firmament a voice 
Joyous as now ; when, scarcely heralded 
By one deep moan, forth from his cavernous depths 
The earthquake burst ; an d the wide splendid scene 
Became one chaos of all fearful things, 
Till the brain whirl'd, partaking the sick motion 
Of rocking palaces. 

Con. And then didst thou, 
My noble Raimond ! through the dreadful paths 
Laid open by destruction, past the chasms, [given 
Whose fathomless clefts, a moment's work, had 
One burial unto thousands, rush to save 
Thy trembling Constance ! she who lives to bless 
Thy generous love, that still the breath of heaven 
Wafts gladness to her soul ! 

Raim. Heaven ! — heaven is just ! 
And being so, must guard thee, sweet one ! still. 
Trust none beside. Oh ! the omnipotent skies 
Make their wrath manifest, but insidious man 
Doth compass those he hates with secret snares, 
Wherein lies fate. Know, danger walks abroad, 
Mask'd as a reveller. Constance ! oh, by all 
Our tried affection, all the vows which bind 
Our hearts together, meet me in these bowers, 
Here, I adjure thee, meet me, when the bell 
Doth sound for vesper prayer ! 

Con. And know'st thou not 
'Twill be the bridal hour 1 

Raim. It will not, love ! 
That hour will bring no bridal ! Naught of this 
To human ear ; but speed thou hither — fly, 
When evening brings that signal. Dost thou heed ? 
This is no meeting by a lover sought 
To breathe fond tales, and make the twilight groves 
And stars attest his vows ; deem thou not so, 
Therefore denying it ! I tell thee, Constance ! 
If thou wouldst save me from such fierce despair 
As falls on man, beholding all he loves 
Perish before him, while his strength can but 
Strive with his agony — thou'lt meet me then. 
Look on me, love ! — I am not oft so moved — 
Thou'lt meet me 1 

Con. Oh ! what mean thy words 1 If then 
My steps are free, — I will. Be thou but calm. 

Raim. Be calm ! — there is a cold and sullen calm, 
And, were my wild fears made realities, 
It might be mine; but, in this dread suspense — 
This conflict of all terrible fantasies, 
There is no calm. Yet fear thou not, dear love ! 
I will watch o'er thee still. And now, farewell 
Until that hour ! 

Con. My Raimond, fare thee well. [Exeunt 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



169 



Scene IV. — Boom in the Citadel of Palermo. 
Alberti, De Couci. 

Be Cou. Saidst thou this night 1 

Alb. This very night — and lo ! 
E'en now the sun declines. 

Be Cou. What ! are they arm'd ] 

Alb. All arm'd, and strong in vengeance and 
despair. 

Be -Cou. Doubtful and strange the tale ! Why 
was not this reveal'd before 1 

Alb. Mistrust me not, my lord ! 
That stern and jealous Procida hath kept 
O'er all my steps (as though he did suspect 
The purposes, which oft his eye hath sought 
To read in mine) a watch so vigilant 
I knew not how to warn thee, though for this 
Alone I mingled with his bands — to learn 
Their projects and their strength. Thou know'st 

my faith 
To Anjou's house full well. 

Be Cou. How may we now 
Avert the gathering storm 1 The viceroy holds 
His bridal feast, and all is revelry. 
'Twas a true-boding heaviness of heart 
Which kept me from these nuptials. 

Alb. Thou thyself 
May'st yet escape, and haply of thy bands 
Rescue a part, ere long to wreak full vengeance 
Upon these rebels. 'Tis too late to dream 
Of saving Eribert. E'en shouldst thou rush 
Before him with the tidings, in his pride 
And confidence of soul, he would but laugh 
Thy tale to scorn. 

Be Cou. He must not die unwarn'd, 
Though it be all in vain. But thou, Alberti, 
Rejoin thy comrades, lest thine absence wake 
Suspicion in their hearts. Thou hast done well, 
And shalt not pass unguerdon'd, should I live 
Through the deep horrors of th' approaching 
night. 

Alb. Noble De Couci, trust me still. Anjou 
Commands no heart more faithful than Alberti's. 

[Exit Alberti. 

Be Cou. The grovelling slave ! — And yet he 
spoke too true ! 
For Eribert, in blind elated joy, 
Will scorn the warning voice. The day wanes 

fast, 
And through the city, recklessly dispersed, 
Unarm'd and unprepared, my soldiers revel, 
E'en on the brink of fate. I must away. 

[Exit De Couci. 



Scene V. — A Banqueting Hall. — Provencal Nobles 



1st Noble. Joy be to this fair meeting ! Who 
hath seen 
The viceroy's bride 1 

2d Noble. I saw her as she pass'd 
The gazing throngs assembled in the city. 
'Tis said she hath not left for years, till now, 
Her castle's wood-girt solitude. 'Twill gall 
These proud Sicilians that her wide domains 
Should be the conqueror's guerdon. 

2>d Noble. 'Twas their boast 
With what fond faith she worshipp'd still the name 
Of the boy Conradin. How will the slaves 
Brook this new triumph of their lords 1 

2d Noble. In sooth, 
It stings them to the quick. In the full streets 
They mix with our Provencals, and assume 
A guise of mirth, but it sits hardly on them. 
'Twere worth a thousand festivals to see 
With what a bitter and unnatural effort 
They strive to smile ! 

1st Noble. Is this Vittoria fair 1 ? 

2d Noble. Of a most noble mien ; but yet her 
beauty 
Is wild and awful, and her large dark eye, 
In its unsettled glances, hath strange power, 
From which thou'lt shrink as I did. 

1st Noble. Hush ! they come. 

Enter Eribert, Vittoria, Constance, and others. 

Eri. Welcome, my noble friends ! — there must 
not lower 
One clouded brow to-day in Sicily ! 
— Behold my bride ! 

Nobles. Receive our homage, lady ! 

Vit. I bid all welcome. May the feast we offer 
Prove worthy of such guests ! 

Eri. Look on her, friends ! 
And say if that majestic brow is not 
Meet for a diadem % 

Vit. 'Tis well, my lord ! 
When memory's pictures fade — 'tis kindly done 
To brighten their dimm'd hues ! 

1st Noble (apart.) Mark'd you her glance ? 

2d Noble (apart.) What eloquent scorn was there? 
Yet he, th' elate 
Of heart, perceives it not. 

Eri. Now to the feast ! 
Constance, you look not joyous. I have said 
That all should smile to-day. 

Con. Forgive me, brother; 



170 



THE VESPEES OF PALERMO. 



The heart is wayward, and its garb of pomp 
At times oppresses it. 

Eri. Why, how is this ? 

Con. Voices of woe, and prayers of agony, 
Unto my soul have risen, and left sad sounds 
There echoing still. Yet would I fain be gay, 
Since 'tis your wish. In truth, I should have been 
A village maid. 

Eri. But being as you are, 
Not thus ignobly free, command your looks 
(They may be taught obedience) to reflect 
The aspect of the time. 

Vit. And know, fair maid ! 
That, if in this unskill'd, you stand alone 
Amidst our court of pleasure. 

Eri. To the feast ! 
Now let the red wine foam ! — There should be mirth 
When conquerors revel ! Lords of this fair isle ! 
Your good swords' heritage, crown each bowl, and 

pledge 
The present and the future ! for they both 
Look brightly on us. Dost thou smile, my bride] 

Vit. Yes, Eribert ! — thy prophecies of joy 
Have taught e'en me to smile. 

Eri. 'Tis well. To-day 
I have won a fair and almost royal bride ; 
To-morrow let the bright sun speed his course, 
To waft me happiness ! — my proudest foes 
Must die ; and then my slumber shall be laid 
On rose-leaves, with no envious fold to mar 
The luxury of its visions !— Fair Vittoria, 
Your looks are troubled ! 

Vit. It is strange — but oft, 
Midst festal songs and garlands, o'er my soul 
Death comes, with some dull image ! As you spoke 
Of those whose blood is claim'd, I thought for them 
Who, in a darkness thicker than the night 
E'er wove with all her clouds, have pined so long, 
How blessed were the stroke which makes them 

things 
Of that invisible world, wherein, we trust, 
There is at least no bondage ! But should we, 
From such a scene as this, where all earth's joys 
Contend for mastery, and the very sense 
Of life is rapture — should we pass, I say, 
At once from such excitements to the void 
And silent gloom of that which doth await us — ■ 
Were it not dreadful 1 

Eri. Banish such dark thoughts ! 
They ill beseem the hour. 

Vit. There is no hour 
Of this mysterious world, in joy or woe, 
But they beseem it well ! Why, what a slight 
Impalpable bound is that, th' unseen, which severs 



Being from death ! And who can tell how near 
Its misty brink he stands 1 

1st Noble (aside.) What mean her words ? 

2d Noble. There's some dark mystery here. 

Eri. No more of this ! 
Pour the bright juice, which Etna's glowing vines 
Yield to the conquerors ! And let music's voice 
Dispel these ominous dreams ! — Wake, harp and 

song ! 
Swell out your triumph ! 

A Messenger enters, bearing a letter. 

Mes. Pardon, my good lord ! 
But this demands 

Eri. What means thy breathless haste, 
And that ill-boding mien 1 Away ! such looks 
Befit not hours like these. 

Mes. The Lord De Couci 
Bade me bear this, and say, 'tis fraught with tidings 
Of life and death. 

Vit. (hurriedly.) Is this a time for aught 
But revelry 1 My lord, these dull intrusions 
Mar the bright spirit of the festal scene ! 

Eri. (to the Messenger.) Hence ! Tell the Lord 
De Couci, we will talk 
Of life and death to-morrow. [Exit Messenger. 

Let there be 
Around me none but joyous looks to-day, 
And strains whose very echoes wake to mirth ! 



A band of the conspirators enter, to the sound of 
music, disguised as shepherds, bacchanals, &c. 

Eri. What forms are these 1 What means this 

antic triumph ? 
Vit. 'Tis but a rustic pageant, by my vassals 
Prepared to grace our bridal. Will you not 
Hear their wild music 1 Our Sicilian vales 
Have many a sweet and mirthful melody, 
To which the glad heart bounds. Breathe ye 

some strain 
Meet for the time, ye sons of Sicily ! 

One of the Masquers sings. 

The festal eve, o'er earth and sky, 

In her sunset robe looks bright, 
And the purple hills of Sicily 

With their vineyards laugh in light ; 
From the marble cities of her plains, 

Glad voices mingling swell ; 
— But with yet more loud and lofty strains, 

They shall hail the Vesper-bell ! 

Oh ! sweet its tones, when the summer breeze 
Their cadence wafts afar, 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



171 



To float o'er the blue Sicilian seas, 

As they gleam to the first pale star ! 
The shepherd greets them on his height, 

The hermit in his cell ; 
— But a deeper voice shall breathe to-night, 
In the sound of the Vesper-bell ! 

[The bell rings. 
Eri. It is the hour ! Hark, hark ! — my bride, 
our summons ! 
The altar is prepared and crown'd with flowers, 

That wait 

Vit. The victim ! 

[A- tumult heard ivithout. 

Procida and Montalba enter, with others, armed. 

Pro. Strike ! the hour is come ! 
Vit. "Welcome, avengers ! welcome ! Now, be 
strong ! 

(T7ie conspirators throw off their disguise, and rush 
with their swords drawn upon the Provencals. Eri- 
bert is wounded, and falls.) 

Pro. Now hath fate reach'd thee, in thy mid 
career, 
Thou reveller in a nation's agonies ! 

(The Provencals are driven off, pursued by the 
Sicilians) 

Con. (supporting Eribert.) My brother ! oh, 

my brother ! 
Eri. Have I stood 
A leader in the battle-fields of kings, 
To perish thus at last 1 Ay, by these pangs, 
And this strange chill, that heavily doth creep, 
Like a slow poison, through my curdling veins, 
This should be — death ! In sooth, a dull exchange 
For the gay bridal feast ! 

Voices (without.) Remember Conradin ! — spare 

none ! — spare none ! 
Vit. (throwing off her bridal wreath and orna- 
ments.) This is proud freedom ! Now my 
soul may cast, 
In generous scorn, her mantle of dissembling 
To earth for ever ! And it is such joy, 
As if a captive from his dull cold cell 
Might soar at once, on charter'd wing, to range 
The realms of starr'd infinity ! Away ! 
Vain mockery of a bridal wreath ! The hour 
For which stern patience ne'er kept watch in vain 
Is come ; and I may give my bursting heart 
Full and indignant scope. Now, Eribert ! 
Believe in retribution ! What ! proud man ! 
Prince, ruler, conqueror ! didst thou deem 
heaven slept ] 



" Or that the unseen, immortal ministers, 
Ranging the world to note e'en purposed crime 
In burning characters, had laid aside 
Their everlasting attributes for thee ? " 
blind security ! He in whose dread hand 
The lightnings vibrate, holds them back, until 
The trampler of this goodly earth hath reach'd 
His pyramid height of power ; that so his fall 
May with more fearful oracles make pale 
Man's crown'd oppressors ! 

Con. Oh ! reproach him not ! 
His soul is trembling on the dizzy brink 
Of that dim world where passion may not enter. 
Leave him in peace. [the rescue ! 

Voices (without.) Anjou ! Anjou ! — De Couci, to 

Eri. (half raising himself .) My brave Provencals ! 
do ye combat still ! 
And I your chief am here ! Now, now I feel 
That death indeed is bitter ! 

Vit. Fare thee well ! 
Thine eyes so oft with their insulting smile [this, 
Have look'd on man's last pangs, thou shouldst by 
Be perfect how to die ! Exit Vittoria. 

Raimond enters. 

Raim. Away, my Constance ! 
Now is the time for flight. Our slaughtering bands 
Are scatter'd far and wide. A little while 
And thou shalt be in safety. Know'st thou not 
That low sweet vale, where dwells the holy man 
Anselmo 1 — he whose hermitage is rear'd 
Mid some old temple's ruins ? Round the spot 
His name hath spread so pure and deep a charm, 
'Tis hallow'd as a sanctuary wherein 
Thou shalt securely bide, till this wild storm 
Have spent its fury. Haste ! 

Con. I will not fly ! 
While in his heart there is one throb of life, 
One spark in his dim eyes, I will not leave 
The brother of my youth to perish thus, 
Without one kindly bosom to sustain 
His dying head. 

Eri. The clouds are darkening round. 
There are strange voices ringing in mine ear 
That summon me — to what % But I have been 
Used to command ! — Away ! I will not die, 
But on the field [He dies. 

Con. (kneeling by him.) Heaven ! be merciful 
As thou art just ! — for he is now where naught 
But mercy can avail him. — It is past ! 

Guido enters with his sword drawn. 

Gui. (to Raimond.) I've sought thee long — why 
art thou lingering here 1 



172 



THE VESPEKS OF PALERMO. 



Haste, follow me ! Suspicion with thy name 
Joins that word — Traitor ! 

Bairn. Traitor ! — Guido 1 

Gui. Yes ! 
Hast thou not heard that, with his men-at-arms, 
After vain conflict with a people's wrath, 
De Couci hath escaped ? And there are those 
Who murmur that from thee the warning came 
Which saved him from our vengeance. But e'en yet, 
In the red current of Provencal blood, 
That doubt may be effaced. Draw thy good sword, 
And follow me ! 

Raim. And thou couldst doubt me, Guido ! 
'Tis come to this ! — Away ! mistrust me still. 
I will not stain my sword with deeds like thine. 
Thou knowst me not ! 

Gui. Raimond di Procida ! — ■ 
If thou art he whom once I deem'd so noble — 
Call me thy friend no more ! [Exit Guido. 

Raim. (after a pause.) Rise, dearest, rise ! 
Thy duty's task hath nobly been fulfill' d, 
E'en in the face of death ; but all is o'er, 
And this is now no place where nature's tears 
In quiet sanctity may freely flow. 
— Hark ! the wild sounds that wait on fearful deeds 
Are swelling on the winds, as the deep roar 
Of fast-advancing billows ; and for thee 
I shame not thus to tremble. — Speed ! oh, speed ! 

Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — A Street in Palermo. 
Procida enters. 

Pro. How strange and deep a stillness loads the 

air, 
As with the power of midnight ! Ay, where death 
Hath pass'd, there should be silence. But this hush 
Of nature's heart, this breathlessness of all things, 
Doth press on thought too heavily, and the sky, 
With its dark robe of purple thunder-clouds, 
Brooding in sullen masses o'er my spirit, 
Weighs like an omen ! Wherefore should this be ? 
Is not our task achieved — the mighty work 
Of our deliverance ! Yes ; I should be joyous : 
But this our feeble nature, with its quick 
Instinctive superstitions, will drag down 
Th' ascending soul. And I have fearful bodings 
That treachery lurks amongst us. — Raimond ! 

Raimond ! 
Oh, guilt ne'er made a mien like his its garb ! 
It cannot be ! 



Montalba, Guido, and other Sicilians enter. 

Pro. Welcome ! we meet in joy ! 
Now may we bear ourselves erect, resuming 
The kingly port of freemen ! Who shall dare, 
After this proof of slavery's dread recoil, 
To weave us chains again 1 Ye have done well. 

Mon. We have done well. There needs no choral 
song, 
No shouting multitudes, to blazon forth 
Our stern exploits. The silence of our foes 
Doth vouch enough, and they are laid to rest, 
Deep as the sword could make it. Yet our task 
Is still but half achieved, since with his bands 
De Couci hath escaped, and doubtless leads 
Their footsteps to Messina, where our foes 
Will gather all their strength. Determined hearts 
And deeds to startle earth, are yet required 
To make the mighty sacrifice complete. — 
Where is thy son ] 

Pro. I know not. Once last night 
He cross'd my path, and with one stroke beat down 
A sword just raised to smite me, and restored 
My own, which in that deadly strife had been 
Wrench'd from my grasp ; but when I would have 

press'd him 
To my exulting bosom, he drew back, 
And with a sad, and yet a scornful smile, 
Full of strange meaning, left me. Since'that hour 
I have not seen him. Wherefore didst thou ask 1 

Mon. It matters not. We have deep things to 
speak of. 
Know'st thou that we have traitors in our councils'? 

Pro. I know some voice in secret must have 
warn'd 
De Couci, or his scatter'd bands had ne'er 
So soon been marshall'd, and in close array 
Led hence as from the field. Hast thou heard 

aught 
That may develop this 1 

Mon. The guards we set 
To watch the city gates, have seized, this morn, 
One whose quick fearful glance, and hurried step, 
Betray'd his guilty purpose. Mark ! he bore 
(Amidst the tumult, deeming that his flight 
Might all unnoticed pass) these scrolls to him — 
The fugitive Provencal. Read and judge ! 

Pro. Where is this messenger 1 

Mon. Where should he be 1 — ■ 
They slew him in their wrath. 

Pro. Unwisely done ! 
Give me the scrolls. [He reads. 

Now, if there be such things 
As may to death add sharpness, yet delay 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



173 



The pang which gives release ; if there be power 
In execration, to call down the fires 
Of yon avenging heaven, whose rapid shafts 
But for such guilt were aimless ; be they heap'd 
Upon the traitor's head ! — Scorn make his name 
Her mark for ever ! 

Mon. In our passionate blindness, 
We send forth curses, whose deep stings recoil 
Oft on ourselves. 

Pro. Whate'er fate hath of ruin 
Fall on his house ! What ! to resign again 
That freedom for whose sake our souls have now 
Engrain'd themselves in blood ! Why, who is he 
That hath devised this treachery % To the scroll 
Why fix'd he not his name, so stamping it 
With an immortal infamy, whose brand [vile 1 
Might warn men from him ? Who should be so 
Alberti ] — In his eye is that which ever [race 

Shrinks from encountering mine ! — But no ! his 
Is of our noblest Oh ! he could not shame 
That high descent ! Urbino 1 — Conti 1 — No ! 
They are too deeply pledged. There's one name 

more ! 
— I cannot utter it ! Now shall I read 
Each face with cold suspicion, which doth blot 
From man's high mien its native royalty, 
And seal his noble forehead with the impress 
Of its own vile imaginings ! Speak your thoughts, 
Montalba ! Guido ! — Who should this man be 1 

Mon. Why, what Sicilian youth unsheathed last 
night 
His sword to aid our foes, and turn'd its edge 
Against his country's chiefs %— He that did this, 
May well be deem'd for guiltier treason ripe. 

Pro. And who is he 1 

Mon. Nay, ask thy son. 

Pro. My son ! 
What should he know of such a recreant heart ? 
Speak, Guido ! thou'rt his friend ! 

Gui. I would not wear 
The brand of such a name ! 

Pro. How 1 what means this 1 
A flash of light breaks in upon my soul ! 
Is it to blast me ] Yet the fearful doubt [fore, 
Hath crept in darkness through my thoughts be- 
And been flung from them. Silence ! — Speak not 

yet! 
I would be calm and meet the thunder-burst 
With a strong heart. [A pause. 

Now, what have I to hear 1 
Your tidings 1 

Gui. Briefly, 'twas your son did thus ! 
He hath disgraced your name. 

Pro. My son did thus ! 



Are thy words oracles, that I should search 
Their hidden meaning out ] What did my son ] 
I have forgot the tale. Repeat it, quick ! [we 

Gui. 'Twill burst upon thee all too soon. While 
Were busy at the dark and solemn rites 
Of retribution ; while we bathed the earth 
In red libations, which will consecrate 
The soil they mingled with to freedom's step 
Through the long march of ages : 'twas his task 
To shield from danger a Provencal maid, 
Sister of him whose cold oppression stung 
Our hearts to madness. 

Mon. What ! should she be spared 
To keep that name from perishing on earth 1 
— I cross'd them in their path, and raised my 

sword 
To smite her in her champion's arms. We fought. 
The boy disarm'd me ! And I live to tell 
My shame, and wreak my vengeance ! 

Gui. Who but he 
Could warn De Couci, or devise the guilt 
These scrolls reveal 1 Hath not the traitor still 
Sought, with his fair and specious eloquence, 
To win us from our purpose 1 All things seem 
Leagued to unmask him. 

Mon. Know you not there came, 
E'en in the banquet's hour-, from this De Couci, 
One, bearing unto Eribert the tidings 
Of all our purposed deeds ? And have we not 
Proof, as the noon-day clear, that Raimond loves 
The sister of that tyrant 1 

Pro. There was one 
Who mourn'd for being childless ! Let him now 
Feast o'er his children's graves, and I will join 
The revelry ! 

Mon. (apart.) You shall be childless too ! 

Pro. Was't you, Montalba ! — Now rejoice, I say! 
There is no name so near you that its stains 
Should call the fever'd and indignant blood 
To your dark cheek ! But I will dash to earth 
The weight that presses on my heart, and then 
Be glad as thou art. 

Mon. What means this, my lord 1 
Who hath seen gladness on Montalba's mien ] 

Pro. Why, should not all be glad who have no 
sons 
To tarnish their bright name 1 

Mon. I am not used 
To bear with mockery. 

Pro. Friend ! By yon high heaven, 
I mock thee not ! 'Tis a proud fate to live 
Alone and unallied. Why, what's alone 1 
A word whose sense is — free ! — Ay, free from all 
The venom'd stings implanted in the heart 



174 



THE VESPEES OF PALEEMO. 



By those it loves. Oh ! I could laugh to think 
0' th' joy that riots in baronial halls, 
When the word comes — "A son is born ! " — A son! 
They should say thus — " He that shall knit your 

brow- 
To furrows, not of years — and bid your eye 
Quail its proud glance to tell the earth its shame, 
Is born, and so rejoice !" Then might we feast, 
And know the cause ! Were it not excellent 1 

Mon. This is all idle. There are deeds to do : 
Arouse thee, Procida ! 

Pro. Why, am I not 
Calm as immortal justice ! She can strike, 
And yet be passionless — and thus will I. 
I know thy meaning. Deeds to do ! — 'tis well. 
They shall be done ere thought on. Go ye forth : 
There is a youth who calls himself my son. 
His name is Eaimond— in his eye is light 
That shows like truth — but be not ye deceived ! 
Bear him in chains before us. We will sit 
To-day in judgment, and the skies shall see 
The strength which girds our nature. Will not this 
Be glorious, brave Montalba ? Linger not, 
Ye tardy messengers ! for there are things 
Which ask the speed of storms. 

[Exeunt Guido and others. 
Is not this well 1 

Mon. 'Tis noble. Keep thy spirit to this proud 
height — 
(Aside.) And then be desolate like me ! My woes 
Will at the thought grow light. 

Pro. What now remains 
To be prepared ?< There should be solemn pomp 
To grace a day like this. Ay, breaking hearts 
Eequire a drapery to conceal their throbs 
From cold inquiring eyes ; and it must be 
Ample and rich, that so their gaze may not 
Explore what lies beneath. [Exit Procida. 

Mon. Now this is well ! 
— I hate this Procida ; for he hath won 
In all our councils that ascendency [been 

And mastery o'er bold hearts, which should have 
Mine by a thousand claims. Had he the strength 
Of wrongs like mine 1 No ! for that name — his 

country — 
He strikes ; my vengeance hath a deeper fount : 
But there's dark joy in this! — And fate hath barr'd 
My soul from every other. [Exit Montalba. 

Scene II. — A Hermitage swrounded by the Ruins 
of an Ancient Temple. 

Constance, Anselmo. 

Con. "Tis strange he comes not ! Is not this the still 



And sultry hour of noon 1 He should have been 
Here by the daybreak. Was there not a voice 1 
— " No ! 'tis the shrill cicada, with glad life 
Peopling these marble ruins, as it sports 
Amidst them in the sun." Hark ! yet again ! 
No ! no ! Forgive me, father ! that I bring 
Earth's restless griefs and passions, to disturb 
The stillness of thy holy solitude : 
My heart is full of care. 

A ns. There is no place 
So hallow'd as to be unvisited 
By mortal cares. Nay, whither should we go 
With our deep griefs and passions, but to scenes 
Lonely and still, where He that made our hearts 
Will speak to them in whispers 1 I have known 
Affliction too, my daughter. 

Con. Hark ! his step ! 
I know it well — he comes — my Eaimond, welcome ! 



Vittoria enters, Constance shrinks back on 
perceiving her. 

Oh, heaven ! that aspect tells a fearful tale. 

Tit. (not observing her) There is a cloud of 
horror on my soul ; 
And on thy words, Anselmo, peace doth wait, 
Even as an echo, following the sweet close 
Of some divine and solemn harmony : 
Therefore I sought thee now. Oh ! speak to me 
Of holy things and names, in whose deep sound 
Is power to bid the tempests of the heart 
Sink, like a storm rebuked. 

Ans. What recent grief 
Darkens thy spirit thus 1 

Vit. I said not grief. 
We should rejoice to-day, but joy is not [wreathe 
That which it hath been. In the flowers which 
Its mantling cup, there is a scent unknown, 
Fraught with a strange delirium. All things now 
Have changed their nature : still, I say, rejoice ! 
There is a cause, Anselmo ! We are free — 
Free and avenged ! Yet on my soul there hangs 
A darkness, heavy as the oppressive gloom 
Of midnight fantasies. Ay, for this, too, 
There is a cause. 

Ans. How say'st thou, we are free 1 — 
There may have raged, within Palermo's walls, 
Some brief wild tumult ; but too well I know 
They call the stranger lord. 

Vit. Who calls the dead 
Conqueror or lord?- Hush ! breathe it not aloud, 
The wild winds must not hear it ! Yet again, 
I tell thee we are free ! 

Ans. Thine eye hath look'd 
On fearful deeds, for still their shadows hang 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



175 



O'er its dark orb. Speak ! I adjure thee : say, 
How hath this work been wrought ] 

Vit. Peace ! ask me not ! 
Why shouldst thou hear a tale to send thy blood 
Back on its fount 1 We cannot wake them now ! 
The storm is in my soul, but they are all 
At rest ! — Ay, sweetly may the slaughter'd babe 
By its dead mother sleep ; and warlike men, 
Who midst the slain have slumber'd oft before, 
Making their shield their pillow, may repose 
Well, now their toils are done. — Is't not enough 1 

Con. Merciful heaven ! have such things been] 
And yet 
There is no shade come o'er the laughing sky ! 
— I am an outcast now. 

Ans. Thou whose ways 
Clouds mantle fearfully ! of all the blind 
But terrible ministers that work thy wrath, 
How much is man the fiercest ! Others know 
Their limits — yes ! the earthquakes, and the 

storms, 
And the volcanoes ! — he alone o'erleaps 
The bounds of retribution ! Couldst thou gaze, 
Vittoria ! with thy woman's heart and eye, 
On such dread scenes unmoved 1 

Vit. Was it for me 
To stay th' avenging sword 1 ? No, though it pierced 
My very soul ! Hark ! hark ! what thrilling shrieks 
Ring through the air around me ! Canst thou not 
Bid them be hush'd] Oh ! — look not on me thus ! 

Ans. Lady ! thy thoughts lend sternness to the 
looks 
Which are but sad ! Have all then perish'd] all? 
Was there no mercy ! 

Vit. Mercy ! it hath been 
A word forbidden as th' unhallow'd names 
Of evil powers. Yet one there was who dared 
To own the guilt of pity, and to aid 
The victims ! — but in vain. Of him no more ! 
He is a traitor, and a traitor's death 
Will be his meed. [his name ! 

Con. (coming forward.) Oh, heaven ! — his name, 
Is it — it cannot be ! 

Vit. (starting.) Thou here, pale girl ! ['scaped 
I deem'd thee with the dead! How hast thou 
The snare ! Who saved thee, last of all thy race ! 
Was it not he of whom I spake e'en now, 
Raimond di Procida ] 

Con. It is enough : 
Now the storm breaks upon me, and I sink. 
Must he too die 1 

Vit. Is it e'en so ] Why then, 
Live on— thou hast the arrow at thy heart ! 
" Fix not on me thy sad reproachful eyes — " 



I mean not to betray thee. Thou may'st live ! 
Why should Death bring thee his oblivious balms ! 
He visits but the happy. Didst thou ask 
If Raimond too must die ] It is as sure 
As that his blood is on thy head, for thou 
Didst win him to this treason. 

Con. When did men 
Call mercy treason? Take my life, but save 
My noble Raimond ! 

Vit. Maiden ! he must die. 
E'en now the youth before his judges stands ; 
And they are men who, to the voice of prayer, 
Are as the rock is to the murmur'd sigh 
Of summer-waves ! — ay, though a father sit 
On their tribunal. Bend thou not to me. 
What wouldst thou ] 

Con. Mercy ! — Oh ! wert thou to plead 
But with a look, e'en yet he might be saved ! 
If thou hast ever loved 

Vit. If I have loved ? 
It is that love forbids me to relent. 
I am what it hath made me. O'er my soul 
Lightning hath pass'd and sear'd it. Could I weep 
I then might pity — but it will not be. 

Con. Oh, thou wilt yet relent ! for woman's heart 
Was form'd to suffer and to melt. 

Vit. Away ! 
Why should I pity thee ] Thou wilt but prove 
What I have known before — and yet I live ! 
Nature is strong, and it may all be borne — 
The sick impatient yearning of the heart 
For that which is not ; and the weary sense 
Of the dull void, wherewith our homes have been 
Circled by death ; yes, all things may be borne ! 
All, save remorse. But I will not bow down 
My spirit to that dark power; there was no guilt ! — 
Anselmo ! wherefore didst thou talk of guilt 1 

Ans. Ay, thus doth sensitive conscience quicken 
thought, 
Lending reproachful voices to a breeze, 
Keen lightning to a look. 

Vit. Leave me in peace ! 
Is't not enough that I should have a sense 
Of things thou canst not see, all wild and dark, 
And of unearthly whispers, haunting me 
With dread suggestions, but that thy cold words, 
Old man, should gall me, too? Must all conspire 

Against me] thou beautiful spirit ! wont 

To shine upon my dreams with looks of love, 
Where art thou vanish'd ? Was it not the thought 
Of thee which urged me to the fearful task, 
And wilt thou now forsake me] I must seek 
The shadowy woods again, for there, perchance, 
Still may thy voice be in my twilight-paths ; 



176 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



— Here I but meet despair ! [Exit Vittoria. 

Ans. (to Constance.) Despair not thou, 
My daughter ! He that purifies the heart 
With grief will lend it strength. [say 

Con. (endeavouring to rouse herself.) Did she not 
That some one was to die] 

Ans. I tell thee not 
Thy pangs are vain — for nature will have way. 
Earth must have tears : yet in a heart like thine, 
Faith may not yield its place. 

Con. Have I not heard 
Some fearful tale 1 ? — Who said that there should rest 
Blood on my soul] What blood] I never bore 
Hatred, kind father ! unto aught that breathes : 
Raimond doth know it well. Raimond ! — High 

heaven ! 
It bursts upon me now ! And he must die ! 
For my sake — e'en for mine ! 

Ans. Her words were strange, 
And herproudmind seem'd half to frenzy wrought; 
— Perchance this may not be. 

Con. It must not be. 
Why do I linger here ] [She rises to depart. 

Ans. Where wouldst thou go ] 

Con. To give their stern and unrelenting hearts 
A victim in his stead. 

Ans. Stay ! wouldst thou rush 
On certain death ] 

Con. I may not falter now. 
— Is not the life of woman all bound up 
In her affections ] What hath she to do 
In this bleak world alone ] It may be well 
For man on his triumphal course to move, 
Uncumber'd by soft bonds ; but we were born 
For love and grief. 

Ans. Thou fair and gentle thing, 
Unused to meet a glance which doth not speak 
Of tenderness or homage ! how shouldst thou 
Bear the hard aspect of unpitying men, 
Or face the King of Terrors] 

Con. There is strength 
Deep-bedded in our hearts, of which we reck 
But little, till the shafts of heaven have pierced 
Its fragile dwelling. Must not earth be rent 
Before her gems are found ] — Oh ! now I feel 
Worthy the generous love which hath not shunn'd 
To look on death for me ! My heart hath given 
Birth to as deep a courage, and a faith 
As high in its devotion. [Exit Constance. 

Ans. She is gone ! 
Is it to perish ? — Cod of mercy ! lend 
Power to my voice, that so its prayer may save 
This pure and lofty creature ! I will follow — 
But her young footstep and heroic heart 



Will bear her to destruction, faster far 

Than I can track her path. [Exit Anselmo. 

Scene III. — Hall of a Public Building. 

Procida, Montalba, Guido, and others, seated as 
on a Tribunal. 

Pro. The morn lower'd darkly; but the sun 
hath now, 
With fierce and angry splendour, through the clouds 
Burst forth, as if impatient to behold 
This our high triumph. — Lead the prisoner in. 

Raimond is brought in, fettered and guarded. 

Why, what a bright and fearless brow is here ! 
— Is this man guilty ] — Look on him, Montalba ! 

Mon. Be firm. Should justice falter at a look ] 

Pro. No, thou say' st well. Her eyes are filleted, 
Or should be so. Thou, that dost call thyself — 
But no ! I will not breathe a traitor's name — 
Speak ! thou art arraign'd of treason. 

Raim. I arraign 
You, before whom I stand, of darker guilt, 
In the bright face of heaven; and your own hearts 
Give echo to the charge. Your very looks 
Have ta'en the stamp of crime, and seem to shrink, 
With a perturb'd and haggard wildness, back 
From the too-searching light. Why, what hath 

wrought 
This change on noble brows ] There is a voice 
With a deep answer, rising from the blood 
Your hands have coldly shed ! Ye are of those 
From whom just men recoil with curdling veins, 
All thrill'd by life's abhorrent consciousness, 
And sensitive feeling of a murderer's presence. 
— Away ! come down from your tribunal seat, 
Put off your robes of state, and let your mien 
Be pale and humbled ; for ye bear about you 
That which repugnant earth doth sicken at, 
More than the pestilence. That I should live 
To see my father shrink ! 

Pro. Montalba, speak ! [not. 

There's something chokes my voice — but fear me 

Mon. If we must plead to vindicate our acts, 
Be it when thou hast made thine own look clear, 
Most eloquent youth ! What answer canst thou 

make 
To this our charge of treason ] 

Raim. I will plead 
That cause before a mightier judgment-throne,. 
Where mercy is not guilt. But here I feel 
Too buoyantly the glory and the joy 
Of my free spirit's whiteness ; for e'en now 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



177 



The embodied hideousness of crime doth seem 
Before me glaring out. Why, I saw thee, 
Thy foot upon an aged warrior's breast, 
Trampling out nature's last convulsive heavings. 
And thou, thy sword— valiant chief ! — is yet 
Red from the noble stroke which pierced at once 
A mother and the babe, whose little life 
Was from her bosom drawn ! — Immortal deeds 
For bards to hymn ! 

Gui. {aside.) I look upon his mien, 
And waver. Can it be ] My boyish heart 
Deem'd him so noble once ! Away, weak thoughts ! 
Why should I shrink, as if the guilt were mine, 
From his proud glance 1 

Pro. thou dissembler ! thou, 
So skill'd to clothe with virtue's generous flush 
The hollow cheek of cold hypocrisy, 
That, with thy guilt made manifest, I can scarce 
Believe thee guilty ! — look on me, and say 
Whose was the secret warning voice, that saved 
De Couci with his bands, to join our foes, 
And forge new fetters for th' indignant land ? 
Whose was this treachery 1 [Shows him papers. 
Who hath promised here 
(Belike to appease the manes of the dead) 
At midnight to unfold Palermo's gates, 
And welcome in the foe 1 Who hath done this, 
But thou — a tyrant's friend ? 

Raim. Who hath done this 1 
Father ! — if I may call thee by that name — 
Look, with thy piercing eye, on those whose smiles 
Were masks that hid their daggers. Tliere, per- 
chance, 
May lurk what loves not light too strong. For me, 
I know but this — there needs no deep research 
To prove the truth that murderers maybe traitors, 
Even to each other. 

Pro. (to Montalba.) His unaltering cheek 
Still vividly doth hold its natural hue, 
And his eye quails not ! Is this innocence 1 

Mori. No ! 'tis th' unshrinking hardihood of crime. 
— Thou bear'st a gallant mien. But where is she 
Whom thou hast barter'd fame and life to save, 
The fair Provencal maid 1 What ! know'st thou 

not 
That this alone were guilt, to death allied 1 
Was 't not our law that he who spared a foe 
(And is she not of that detested race 1) 
Should thenceforth be amongst us as a foe 1 
— Where hast thou borne her ? speak ! 

Bairn. That Heaven, whose eye 
Burns up thy soul with its far-searching glance, 
Is with her : she is safe. 

Pro. And by that word 



Thy doom is seal'd. Oh, God ! that I had died 
Before this bitter hour, in the full strength 
And glory of my heart ! 

Constance enters, and rushes to Raimond. 

Con. Oh ! art thou found % [thee ! 

-^-But yet, to find thee thus ! Chains, chains for 
My brave, my noble love ! Off with these bonds; 
Let him be free as air : for I am come 
To be your victim now. 

Raim. Death has no pang 
More keen than this. Oh ! wherefore art thou here 1 ? 
I could have died so calmly, deeming thee 
Saved, and at peace. 

Con. At peace ! — And thou hast thought 
Thus poorly of my love ! But woman's breast 
Hath strength to suffer too. Thy father sits 
On this tribunal ; Raimond, which is he 1 [heart 

Raim. My father ! who hath lull'd thy gentle 
With that false hope 1 Beloved ! gaze around — 
See if thine eye can trace a father's soul 
In the dark looks bent on us. 



[Constance, after 
tenances of the 
Procida. 



examining the coun- 
s, falls at the feet of 



Con. Thou art he ! 
Nay, turn thou not away ! for I beheld 
Thy proud lip quiver, and a watery mist 
Pass o'er thy troubled eye ; and then I knew 
Thou wert his father ! Spare him ! take my life ! 
In truth, a worthless sacrifice for his, 
But yet mine all. Oh ! he hath still to run 
A long bright race of glory. 

Raim. Constance, peace ! 
I look upon thee, and my failing heart 
Is as a broken reed. 

Con. (still addressing Procida.) Oh, yet relent ! 
If 'twas his crime to rescue me — behold 
I come to be the atonement ! Let him live 
To crown thine age with honour. In thy heart 
There's a deep conflict ; but great Nature pleads 
With an o'ermastering voice, and thou wilt yield! 
— Thou art his father ! 

Pro. (after a pause.) Maiden, thou'rt deceived ! 
I am as calm as that dead pause of nature 
Ere the full thunder bursts. A judge is not 
Father or friend. Who calls this man my son % 
— My son ! Ay ! thus his mother proudly 

smiled — 
But she was noble ! Traitors stand alone, 
Loosed from all ties. Why should I trifle thus ? 
— Bear her away ! 

Raim. (starting forward) And whither] 



178 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Mori. Unto death. [perish'd? 

Why should she live, when all her race have 

Con. (sinking into the arms of Raimond.) 
Raimond, farewell ! Oh ! when thy star hath 

risen 
To its bright noon, forget not, best beloved ! 
I died for thee. 

Raim. High Heaven ! thou see'st these things, 
And yet endurest them ! Shalt thou die for me, 
Purest and loveliest being ! — but our fate 
May not divide us long. Her cheek is cold — 
Her deep blue eyes are closed : should this be 

death 
— If thus, there yet were mercy ! Father, father ! 
Is thy heart human 1 

Pro. Bear her hence, I say! 
Why must my soul be torn ? 



Anselmo enters 



a Crucifix. 



Ans. Now, by this sign 
Of heaven's prevailing love ! ye shall not harm 
One ringlet of her head. How ! is there not 
Enough of blood upon your burthen'd souls ? 
Will not the visions of your midnight couch 
Be wild and dark enough, but ye must heap 
Crime upon crime ] Be ye content : your dreams, 
Your councils, and your banquetings, will yet 
Be haunted by the voice which doth not sleep, 
E'en though this maid be spared ! Constance, 

look up ! 
Thou shalt not die. 

Raim. Oh ! death e'en now hath veil'd 
The light of her soft beauty. Wake my love ! 
Wake at my voice ! 

Pro. Anselmo, lead her hence, 
And let her live, but never meet my sight. 
— Begone ! my heart will burst. 

Raim. One last embrace ! 
— Again life's rose is opening on her cheek ; 
Yet must we part. So love is crush'd on earth ! 
But there are brighter worlds ! — Farewell, fare- 
well ! 

[He gives her to the care of Anselmo. 

Con. (slowly recovering) There was a voice which 
call'd me. Am I not 
A spirit freed from earth ? Have I not pass'd 
The bitterness of death ? 

Ans. Oh, haste away ! [leased 

Con. Yes ! Raimond calls me. He too is re- 
From his cold bondage. We are free at last, 
And all is well. Away ! 

[She is led out by Anselmo. 

Raim. The pang is o'er, 
And I have but to die. 



Mon. Now, Procida, 
Comes thy great task. Wake ! summon to thine 

aid 
All thy deep soul's commanding energies ; 
For thou — a chief among us — must pronounce 
The sentence of thy son. It rests with thee. 

Pro. Ha ! ha ! Men's hearts should be of softer 
mould 
Than in the elder time. Fathers could doom 
Their children then with an unfaltering voice, 
And we must tremble thus ! Is it not said 
That nature grows degenerate, earth being now 
So full of days ] 

Mon. Rouse up thy mighty heart. 

Pro. Ay, thou say'st right. There yet are souls 
which tower 
As landmarks to mankind. Well, what's the task 1 
— There is a man to be condemn'd, you say ? 
Is he then guilty 1 

All. Thus we deem of him, 
With one accord. 

Pro. And hath he naught to plead 1 

Raim. Naught but a soul unstain'd. 

Pro. Why, that is little. 
Stains on the soul are but as conscience deems 

them, 
And conscience may be sear'd. But for this 

sentence ! 
— Was 't not the penalty imposed on man, 
E'en from creation's dawn, that he must die 1 
— It was : thus making guilt a sacrifice 
Unto eternal justice ; and we but 
Obey heaven's mandate when we cast dark souls 
To th' elements from among us. Be it so ! 
Such be his doom ! I have said. Ay, now my heart 
Is girt with adamant, whose cold weight doth press 
Its gaspings down. Off! let me breathe in freedom! 
— Mountains are on my breast ! [He sinks back. 

Mon. Guards, bear the prisoner 
Back to his dungeon. 

Raim. Father ! oh, look up ; 
Thou art my father still ! 

Gui. {leaving the tribunal, throws himself on the 
neck of Raimond.) Oh ! Raimond, Raimond ! 
If it should be that I have wrong'd thee, say 
Thou dost forgive me. 

Raim. Friend of my young days, 
So may all-pitying heaven ! 

[Raimond is led out. 

Pro. Whose voice was that 1 
Where is he 1 — gone ? Now I may breathe once 

more 
In the free air of heaven. Let us away. 

[Exeunt omnes. 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



17 



ACT Y. 

Scene I. — A Prison dimly lighted. 
Raimond sleeping. Procida enters. 

Pro. (gazing upon him earnestly.) Can he 
Then sleep ? Th' overshadowing night hath wrapt 
Earth at her stated hours ; the stars have set 
Their burning watch ; and all things hold their 

course 
Of wakefulness and rest ; yet hath not sleep 
Sat on mine eyelids since — but this avails not ! 
And thus he slumbers ! " Why, this mien doth seem 
As if its soul were but one lofty thought 
Of an immortal destiny ! " — his brow 
Is calm as waves whereon the midnight heavens 
Are imaged silently. Wake, Raimond ! wake ! 
Thy rest is deep. 

Raim. (starting up.) My father! Wherefore here? 
I am prepared to die, yet would I not 
Fall by thy hand. 

Pro. 'Twas not for this I came. 

Raim. Then wherefore? and upon thy lofty brow 
Why burns the troubled flush ? 

Pro. Perchance 'tis shame. 
Yes, it may well be shame ! — for I have striven 
With nature's feebleness, and been o'erpower'd. 
— Howe'er it be, 'tis not for thee to gaze, 
Noting it thus. Rise, let me loose thy chains. 
Arise, and follow me ; but let thy step 
Fall without sound on earth : I have prepared 
The means for thy escape. 

Raim. What ! thou I the austere, 
The inflexible Procida ! hast thou done this, 
Deeming me guilty still ! 

Pro. Upbraid me not ! 
It is even so. There have been nobler deeds 
By Roman fathers done, — but I am weak. 
Therefore, again I say, arise ! and haste, 
For the night wanes. Thy fugitive course must be 
To realms beyond the deep ; so let us part 
In silence, and for ever. 

Raim. Let him fly 
Who holds no deep asylum in his breast 
Wherein to shelter from the scoffs of men ; 
— I can sleep calmly here. 

Pro. Art thou in love 
With death and infamy, that so thy choice 
Is made, lost boy ! when freedom courts thy grasp? 

Raim. Father ! to set th' irrevocable seal 
Upon that shame wherewith ye have branded me, 
There needs but flight. What should I bear from 

this, 
My native land ? — A blighted name, to rise 



And part me, with its dark remembrances, 
For ever from the sunshine ! O'er my soul 
Bright shadowings of a nobler destiny 
Float in dim beauty through the gloom ; but here 
On earth, my hopes are closed. 

Pro. Thy hopes are closed ! 
And what were they to mine ? — Thou wilt not fly ! 
Why, let all traitors flock to thee, and learn 
How proudly guilt can talk ! Let fathers rear 
Their offspring henceforth, as the free wild birds 
Foster their young : when these can mount alone, 
Dissolving nature's bonds, why should it not 
Be so with us? 

Raim. father ! now I feel 
What high prerogatives belong to Death. 
He hath a deep though voiceless eloquence, 
To which I leave my cause. " His solemn veil 
Doth with mysterious beauty clothe our virtues, 
And in its vast oblivious folds, for ever 
Give shelter to our faults." When I am gone, 
The mists of passion which have dimm'd my name 
Will melt like day-dreams ; and my memory then 
Will be — not what it should have been — for I 
Must pass without my fame — but yet unstain'd 
As a clear morning dewdrop. Oh ! the grave 
Hath rights inviolate as a sanctuary's, 
And they should be my own ! 

Pro. Now, by just Heaven, 
I will not thus be tortured ! — Were my heart 
But of thy guilt or innocence assured, 
I could be calm again. " But in this wild 
Suspense — this conflict and vicissitude 

Of opposite feelings and convictions What ! 

Hath it been mine to temper and to bend 
All spirits to my purpose ? have I raised 
With a severe and passionless energy, 
From the dread mingling of their elements, 
Storms which have rock'd the earth ? — and shall 

I now 
Thus fluctuate as a feeble reed, the scorn 
And plaything of the winds ? " Look on me, boy ! 
Guilt never dared to meet these eyes, and keep 
Its heart's dark secret close. — pitying Heaven ! 
Speak to my soul with some dread oracle, 
And tell me which is truth. 

Raim. I will not plead. 
I will not call th' Omnipotent to attest 
My innocence. No, father ! in thy heart 
I know my birthright shall be soon restored ; 
Therefore I look to death, and bid thee speed 
The great absolver. 

Pro. my son ! my son ! 
We will not part in wrath ! The sternest hearts, 
Within their proud and guarded fastnesses, 



180 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



Hide something still, round which their tendrils 

cling 
With a close grasp, unknown to those who dress 
Their love in smiles. And such wert thou to me ! 
The all which taught me that my soul was cast 
In nature's mould. And I must now hold on 
My desolate course alone ! Why, be it thus ! 
He that doth guide a nation's star, should dwell 
High o'er the clouds, in regal solitude, 
Sufficient to himself. 

Maim. Yet, on the summit, 
When with her bright wings glory shadows thee, 
Forget not him who coldly sleeps beneath, 
Yet might have soar'd as high ! 

Pro. No, fear thou not ! 
Thou'lt be remember'd long. The canker-worm 
0' th' heart is ne'er forgotten. 

Raim. " Oh ! not thus — 
I would not thus be thought of." 

Pro. Let me deem 
Again that thou art base ! — for thy bright looks, 
Thy glorious mien of fearlessness and truth, 
Then would not haunt me as the avenging powers 
Follow'd the parricide. Farewell, farewell ! 
I have no tears. Oh ! thus thy mother look'd, 
When, with a sad, yet half-triumphant smile, 
All radiant with deep meaning, from her deathbed 
She gave thee to my arms. 

Raim. Now death has lost 
His sting, since thou believ'st me innocent ! 

Pro. (wildly) Thou innocent ! — Am I thy mur- 
derer, then ? 
Away ! I tell thee thou hast made my name 
A scorn to men ! No ! I will not forgive thee ; 
A traitor ! What ! the blood of Procida 
Filling a traitor's veins ] Let the earth drink it. 
Thou wouldst receive our foes ! — but they shall 

meet 
From thy perfidious lips a welcome, cold 
As death can make it. Go, prepare thy soul ! 

Raim. Father ! yet hear me ! 

Pro. No ! thou 'rt skill'd to make 
E'en shame look fair. Why should I linger thus 1 

[Going to leave the prison, he turns hack for 
a moment. 

If there be aught — if aught — for which thou need'st 
Forgiveness— not of me, but that dread Power 
From whom no heart is veil'd — delay thou not 
Thy prayer, — time hurries on. 

Raim. I am prepared. 

Pro. 'Tis well. [Exit Procida. 

Raim. Men talk of torture ! — Can they wreak 
Upon the sensitive and shrinking frame, 



Half the mind bears — and lives 1 My spirit feels 
Bewilder'd ; on its powers this twilight gloom 
Hangs like a weight of earth. — It should be morn ; 
Why, then, perchance, a beam of heaven's bright 

sun 
Hath pierced, ere now, the grating of my dungeon, 
Telling of hope and mercy ! 

[Exit into an inner cell. 



Scene II. — A Street of Palermo. 
Many Citizens assembled. 

1st Cit. The morning breaks; his time is almost 
come : 
Will he be led this way ? 

2d Cit. Ay, so 'tis said 
To die before that gate through which he purposed 
The foe should enter in ! 

3d Cit. 'Twas a vile plot ! 
And yet I would my hands were pure as his 
From the deep stain of blood. Didst hear the 

sounds 
I' the air last night ! 

2d Cit. Since the great work of slaughter, 
Who hath not heard them duly at those hours 
Which should be silent ] 

3d Cit. Oh ! the fearful mingling, 
The terrible mimicry of human voices, 
In every sound, which to the heart doth speak 
Of woe and death. 

2d Cit. Ay, there was woman's shrill 
And piercing cry ; and the low feeble wail 
Of dying infants ; and the half-suppress'd 
Deep groan of man in his last agonies ! 
And, now and then, there swell'd upon the breeze 
Strange, savage bursts of laughter, wilder far 
Than all the rest. 

1st Cit. Of our own fate, perchance, 
These awful midnight wailings may be deem'd 
An ominous prophecy. Should France regain 
Her power among us, doubt not, we shall have 
Stern reckoners to account with. — Hark ! 



[The sound of trumpets heard at a 

2d Cit. 'Twas but 
A rushing of the breeze. 

3d Cit. E'en now, 'tis said, 
The hostile bands approach. 



[The sound is heard gradually drawing nearer. 

2d Cit. Again ! that sound 
Was no illusion. Nearer yet it swells — 
They come, they come ! 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



181 



Procida enters. 

Pro. The foe is at your gates ; 
But hearts and hands prepared shall meet his onset. 
Why are ye loitering here 1 

Cit. My lord, we came — 

Pro. Think ye I know not wherefore 1 — 'twas 
to see 
A fellow-being die ! Ay, 'tis a sight 
Man loves to look on ; and the tenderest hearts 
Recoil, and yet withdraw not from the scene. 
For this ye came. What ! is our nature fierce, 
Or is there that in mortal agony 
From which the soul, exulting in its strength, 
Doth learn immortal lessons ?- Hence, and arm ! 
Ere the night-dews descend, ye will have seen 
Enough of death — for this must be a day 
Of battle ! 'Tis the hour which troubled souls 
Delight in, for its rushing storms are wings 
Which bear them up ! Arm ! arm ! 'tis for your 

homes, 
And all that lends them loveliness — Away ! 

[Exeunt. 



Scene III. — Prison of Raimond. 
Raimond, Anselmo. 

Bairn. And Constance then is safe ! Heaven 
bless thee, father ! 
Good angels bear such comfort. 

Ans. I have found 
A safe asylum for thine honour'd love, 
Where she may dwell until serener days, 
With Saint Rosalia's gentlest daughters — those 
Whose hallow'd office is to tend the bed 
Of pain and death, and soothe the parting soul 
With their soft hymns : and therefore are they 

call'd 
" Sisters of Mercy." 

Maim. Oh ! that name, my Constance ! 
Befits thee well. E'en in our happiest days, 
There was a depth of tender pensiveness 
Far in thine eyes' dark azure, speaking ever 
Of pity and mild grief. Is she at peace ? 

Ans. Alas ! what should I say 1 

Raim. Why did I ask, 
Knowing the deep and full devotedness 
Of her young heart's affections ] Oh ! the thought 
Of my untimely fate will haunt her dreams, 
Which should have been so tranquil ! — and her 

soul, 
Whose strength was but the lofty gift of love, 
Even unto death will sicken. 



Ans. All that faith 
Can yield of comfort, shall assuage her woes ; 
And still, whate'er betide, the light of heaven 
Rests on her gentle heart. But thou, my son ! 
Is thy young spirit master'd, and prepared 
For nature's fearful and mysterious change ? 

Raim. Ay, father ! of my brief remaining task 
The least part is to die ! And yet the cup 
Of life still mantled brightly to my lips, [name 
Crown'd with that sparkling bubble, whose proud 
Is — glory ! Oh ! my soul, from boyhood's morn, 
Hath nursed such mighty dreams ! It was my hope 
To leave a name, whose echo from the abyss 
Of time should rise, and float upon the winds 
Into the far hereafter ; there to be 
A trumpet-sound, a voice from the deep tomb, 
Murmuring — Awake ! — Arise ! But this is past ! 
Erewhile, and it had seem'd enough of shame 
To sleep forgotten in the dust ; but now — 
Oh, God ! — the undying record of my grave 
Will be — Here sleeps a traitor ! — One, whose crime, 
Was — to deem brave men might find nobler 

weapons 
Than the cold murderer's dagger ! 

Ans. Oh ! my son, 
Subdue these troubled thoughts ! Thou wouldst 
not change [hang 

Thy lot for theirs, o'er whose dark dreams will 
The avenging shadows, which the blood-stain'dsoul 
Doth conjure from the dead ! 

Raim. Thou'rt right. I would not. 
Yet 'tis a weary task to school the heart, 
Ere years or griefs have tamed its fiery spirit 
Into that still and passive fortitude, [hour 

Which is but learn'd from suffering. Would the 
To hush these passionate throbbings were at hand ! 

Ans. It will not be to-day. Hast thou not heard 
— But no — the rush, the trampling, and the stir 
Of this great city, arming in her haste, 
Pierce not these dungeon-depths. The foe hath 

reach'd 
Our gates, and all Palermo's youth, and all 
Her warrior men, are marshall'd, and gone forth, 
In that high hope which makes realities, 
To the red field. Thy father leads them on. 

Raim. (starting up.) They are gone forth ! my 
father leads them on ! 
All — all Palermo's youth ! No ! one is left, 
Shut out from glory's race ! They are gone forth ! 
Ay, now the soul of battle is abroad — ■ 
It burns upon the air ! The joyous winds 
Are tossing warrior-plumes, the proud white foam 
Of battle's roaring billows ! On my sight 
The vision bursts — it maddens ! 'tis the flash, 



182 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



The lightning-shock of lances, and the cloud 
Of rushing arrows, and the broad full blaze 
Of helmets in the sun ! The very steed 
With his majestic rider glorying shares 
The hour's stern joy, and waves his floating mane 
As a triumphant banner ! Such things are 
Even now — and I am here ! 

Ans. Alas, be calm ! 
To the same grave ye press, — thou that dost pine 
Beneath a weight of chains, and they that rule 
The fortunes of the fight. 

Raim. Ay ! Thou canst feel 
The calm thou wouldst impart ; for unto thee 
All men alike, the warrior and the slave, 
Seem, as thou say'st, but pilgrims, pressing on 
To the same bourne. Yet call it not the same : 
Their graves who fall in this day's fight will be 
As altars to their country, visited 
By fathers with their children, bearing wreaths, 
And chanting hymns in honour of the dead : 
Will mine be such 1 

Vittoria rushes in wildly, as if pursued. 

Tit. Anselmo ! art thou found ! 
Haste, haste, or all is lost ! Perchance thy voice, 
Whereby they deem heaven speaks, thy lifted cross, 
And prophet mien, may stay the fugitives, 
Or shame them back to die. 

Ans. The fugitives ! 
What words are these 1 The sons of Sicily 
Fly not before the foe 1 

Vit. That I should say 
It is too true ! 

Ans. And thou — thou bleedest, lady ! 

Vit. Peace ! heed not me when Sicily is lost ! 
I stood upon the walls, and watch'd our bands, 
As, with their ancient royal banner spread, 
Onward they march' d. The combat was begun, 
The fiery impulse given, and valiant men [lo ! 
Had seal'd their freedom with their blood — when, 
That false Alberti led his recreant vassals 
To join th' invader's host. 

Raim. His country's curse 
Rest on the slave for ever ! 

Vit. Then distrust, 
E'en of their noble leaders, and dismay, 
That swift contagion, on Palermo's bands 
Came like a deadly blight. They fled ! — Oh shame ! 
E'en now they fly ! Ay, through the city gates 
They rush, as if all Etna's burning streams 
Pursued their winged steps ! 

Raim. Thou hast not named 
Their chief — Di Procida — he doth not fly % 

Vit. No ! like a kingly lion in the toils, 



Daring the hunters yet, he proudly strives : 
But all in vain ! The few that breast the storm, 
With Guido and Montalba, by his side, 
Fight but for graves upon the battle-field. 

Raim. And I am here ! Shall there be power, 
OGod! 
In the roused energies of fierce despair, 
To burst my heart — and not to rend my chains ? 
Oh, for one moment of the thunderbolt 
To set the strong man free ! ['twere a deed 

Vit. (after gazing upon him earnestly.) Why, 
Worthy the fame and blessing of all time, 
To loose thy bonds, thou son of Procida ! 
Thou art no traitor ! — from thy kindled brow 
Looks out thy lofty soul ! Arise ! go forth ! 
And rouse the noble heart of Sicily 
Unto high deeds again. Anselmo, haste ; 
Unbind him ! Let my spirit still prevail, 
Ere I depart — for the strong hand of death 
Is on me now. [She sinks hack against a pillar. 

Ans. Oh, heaven ! the life-blood streams 
Fast from thy heart — thy troubled eyes grow dim. 
Who hath done this 1 

Vit. Before the gates I stood, 
And in the name of him, the loved and lost, 
With whom I soon shall be, all vainly strove 
To stay the shameful flight. Then from the foe, 
Fraught with my summons to his viewless home, 
Came the fleet shaft which pierced me. 

Ans. Yet, oh yet, 
It may not be too late. Help, help ! 

Vit. (to Raimond.) Away ! 
Bright is the hour which brings thee liberty ! 

Attendants enter. 

Haste, be those fetters riven ! Unbar the gates, 
And set the captive free ! 

(The Attendants seem to hesitate) Know ye not her 
Who should have worn your country's diadem ? 
Att. lady ! we obey. 

[Tliey take off Raimond's chains. He springs 
up exultingly. 

Raim. Is this no dream ? 
Mount, eagle ! thou art free ! Shall I then die 
Not midst the mockery of insulting crowds, 
But on the field of banners, where the brave 
Are striving for an immortality 1 
It is e'en so ! Now for bright arms of proof, 
A helm, a keen-edged falchion, and e'en yet 
My father may be saved ! 

Vit. Away, be strong ! 
And let thy battle-word, to rule the storm, 
Be — Conradin. [He rushes out. 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



183 



Oh ! for one hour of life, 
To hear that name blent with th' exulting shout 
Of victory ! It will not be ! A mightier power 
Doth summon me away. 

Ans. To purer worlds 
Raise thy last thoughts in hope. 

Vit. Yes ! he is there, 
All glorious in his beauty ! — Conradin ! 
Death parted us, and death shall reunite ! 
He will not stay — it is all darkness now ! 
Night gathers o'er my spirit. [She dies. 

Ans. She is gone ! 
It is an awful hour which stills the heart 
That beat so proudly once. Have mercy, heaven ! 
[He Jcneels beside her. 



Scene IV. — Before the Gates of Palermo. 

Sicilians flying tumultuously towards the Gates. 

Voices, {without.) Montjoy! Montjoy! St Denis 
for Anjou ! 
Provenfals, on ! 
Sicilians. Fly, fly, or all is lost ! 

Raimond appears in the gateway armed, and 
carrying a banner. 

Bairn. Back, back, I say ! ye men of Sicily ! 
All is not lost ! Oh ! shame ! A few brave hearts 
In such a cause, ere now, have set their breasts 
Against the rush of thousands, and sustain'd, 
And made the shock recoil. Ay, man, free man, 
Still to be call'd so, hath achieved such deeds 
As heaven and earth have marvell'd at ; and souls, 
Whose spark yet slumbers with the days to come, 
Shall burn to hear, transmitting brightly thus 
Freedom from race to race ! Back ! or prepare 
Amidst your hearths, your bowers, your very 

shrines, 
To bleed and die in vain ! Turn ! — follow me ! 
" Conradin, Conradin ! " — for Sicily 
His spirit fights ! Remember " Conradin ! " 

[TJiey begin to rally round him. 
Ay, this is well ! — Now, follow me, and charge ! 

[T7ie Provencals rush in, but are repulsed by 
the Sicilians. — Exeunt. 



Scene Y.—Part of the Field of Battle. 



Montalba enters wounded, and supported by Rai- 
mond, whose face is concealed by his helmet. 

Bairn. Here rest thee, warrior. 



Mon. Rest ! ay, death is rest, 
And such will soon be mine. But, thanks to thee, 
I shall not die a captive. Brave Sicilian ! 
These lips are all unused to soothing words, 
Or I should bless the valour which hath won, 
For my last hour, the proud free solitude 
Wherewith my soul would gird itself. Thy name 1 

Bairn. 'Twill be no music to thine ear, Montalba. 
Gaze — read it thus ! 

[He lifts the visor of his helmet. 

Mon. Raimond di Procida ! 

Bairn. Thou hast pursued me with a bitter hate : 
But fare thee well ! Heaven's peace be with thy 

soul ! 
I must away. One glorious effort more, 
And this proud field is won. [Exit Raimond. 

Mon. Am I thus humbled ] 

How my heart sinks within me ! But 'tis Death 
(And he can tame the mightiest) hath subdued 
My towering nature thus. Yet is he welcome ! 
That youth — 'twas in his pride he rescued me ! 
I was his deadliest foe, and thus he proved 
His fearless scorn. Ha ! ha ! but he shall fail 
To melt me into womanish feebleness. 
There I still baffle him — the grave shall seal 
My lips for ever — mortal shall not hear 
Montalba say — "forgive!" [He dies. 



Scene VI. — Another part of the Field. 

Procida, Guido, and other Sicilians. 

Pro. The day is ours ; but he, the brave unknown, 
Who turn'd the tide of battle — he whose path 
Was victory — who hath seen him 1 

Alberti is brought in wounded and fettered. 

Alb. Procida ! 

Pro. Be silent, traitor ! Bear him from my sight, 
Unto your deepest dungeons. 

Alb. In the grave 
A nearer home awaits me. Yet one word 
Ere my voice fail — thy son 

Pro. Speak, speak ! 

Alb. Thy son 
Knows not a thought of guilt. That trait'rous plot 
Was mine alone. [He is led away. 

Pro. Attest it, earth and heaven ! 
My son is guiltless ! Hear it, Sicily ! 
The blood of Procida is noble still ! 
My son ! He lives, he lives ! His voice shall speak 
Forgiveness to his sire ! His name shall cast 
Its brightness o'er my soul ! 

Gui. day of joy ! 



184 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



The brother of my heart is worthy still 
The lofty name he bears ! 

Anselmo enters. 

Pro. Anselmo, welcome ! 
In a glad hour we meet; for know, my son 
Is guiltless. 

Ans. And victorious ! By his arm 
All hath been rescued. 

Pro. How ! — the unknown • 

Ans. Was he ! 
Thy noble Raimond !— by Vittoria's hand 
Freed from his bondage, in that awful hour 
When all was flight and terror. 

Pro. Now my cup 
Of joy too brightly mantles ! Let me press 
My warrior to a father's heart — and die ; 
For life hath naught beyond. Why comes he not? 
Anselmo, lead me to my valiant boy ! 

Ans. Temper this proud delight. 

Pro. What means that look 1 
He hath not fallen? 

Ans. He lives. 

Pro. Away, away ! 
Bid the wide city with triumphal pomp 
Prepare to greet her victor. Let this hour 
Atone for all his wrongs ! [Exeunt. 



Scene VII. — Garden of a Convent. 
Raimond is led in wounded, leaning on Attendants. 

Raim. Bear me to no dull couch, but let me die 
In the bright face of nature ! Lift my helm, 
That I may look on heaven. 

1st Att. (to 2d Attendant.) Lay him to rest 
On this green sunny bank, and I will call 
Some holy sister to his aid; but thou 
Return unto the field, for high-born men 
There need the peasant's aid. [Exit 2d A ttendant. 

(To Raim.) Here gentle hands 

Shall tend thee, warrior ; for, in these retreats, 
They dwell, whose vows devote them to the care 
Of all that suffer. May^t thou live to bless them ! 
[Exit 1st Attendant. 

Raim. Thus have I wish'd to die ! 'Twas a 
proud strife ! 
My father bless'd th' unknown who rescued him, 
(Bless'd him, alas, because unknown !) and Guido, 
Beside him bravely struggling, call'd aloud, 
"Noble Sicilian, on !" Oh ! had they deem'd 
'Twas I who led that rescue, they had spurn'd 
Mine aid, though 'twas deliverance; and their looks 
Had fallen like blights upon me. There is one, 
Whose eye ne'er turn'd on mine but its blue light 



Grew softer, trembling through the dewy mist 
Raised by deep tenderness ! Oh, might the soul, 
Set in that eye, shine on me ere I perish ! 
— Is't not her voice ? 

Constance enters speaking to a Nun, who turns 
into another path. 

Con. Oh, happy they, kind sister ! 
Whom thus ye tend ; for it is theirs to fall 
With brave men side by side, when the roused heart 
Beats proudly to the last ! There are high souls 
Whose hope was such a death, and 'tis denied ! 
[She approaches Raimond. 

Young warrior, is there aught Thou here, my 

Raimond ! 
Thou here — and thus ! Oh ! is this joy or woe 1 

Raim. Joy, be it joy ! my own, my blessed love ! 
E'en on the grave's dim verge. Yes ! it is joy ! 
My Constance ! victors have been crown'd ere now, 
With the green shining laurel, when their brows 
Wore death's own impress — and it may be thus 
E'en yet, with me ! They freed me, when the foe 
Had half prevail'd, and I have proudly earn'd, 
With my heart's dearest blood, the meed to die 
Within thine arms. 

Con. Oh ! speak not thus — to die ! 
These wounds may yet be closed. 

[She attempts to hind his wounds. 
Look on me, love ! 
Why, there is more than life in thy glad mien — 
'Tis full of hope ! and from thy kindled eye 
Breaks e'en unwonted light, whose ardent ray 
Seems born to be immortal ! 

Raim. 'Tis e'en so ! 
The parting soul doth gather all her fires 
Around her ; all her glorious hopes, and dreams, 
And burning aspirations, to illume 
The shadowy dimness of the untrodden path 
Which lies before her ; and encircled thus, 
Awhile she sits in dying eyes, and thence 
Sends forth her bright farewell. Thy gentle cares 
Are vain, and yet I bless them. 

Con. Say not vain ; 
The dying look not thus. We shall not part ! 

Raim. I have seen death ere now, and known 
him wear 
Full many a changeful aspect. 

Con. Oh ! but none 
Radiant as thine, my warrior ! Thou wilt live ! 
Look round thee ! all is sunshine. Is not this 
A smiling world 1 

Raim. Ay, gentlest love ! a world 
Of joyous beauty and magnificence, 
Almost too fair to leave ! Yet must we tame 



THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



185 



crown'd conqueror ! — Hark ! the trumpet's 
voice ! 

[A sowrtd of triumphant music is heard gra- 
dually approaching. 

Is't not a thrilling call % What drowsy spell 
Benumbs me thus ? — Hence ! I am free again ! 
Now swell your festal strains — the field is won ! 
Sing to me glorious dreams. [He dies. 

Ans. The strife is past ; 
There fled a noble spirit ! 

Con. Hush ! he sleeps — ■ 
Disturb him not ! 

Ans. Alas ! this is no sleep 
From which the eye doth radiantly unclose : 
Bow down thy soul, for earthly hope is o'er ! 

[The music continues approaching. Guido 
enters with Citizens and Soldiers. 

Gui. The shrines are deck'd, the festive torches 
blaze — 
Where is our brave deliverer % We are come 
To crown Palermo's victor ! 

Ans. Ye come too late. 
The voice of human praise doth send no echo 
Into the world of spirits. [The music ceases. 

Pro. {after a pause.) Is this dust 
I look on — Raimond 1 'Tis but a sleep ! — a smile 
On his pale cheek sits proudly. Raimond, wake ! 
Oh, God ! and this was his triumphant day ! 
My son, my injured son ! 

Con. (starting.) Art thou his father ! [eye, 

I know thee now. — Hence ! with thy dark stern 
And thy cold heart ! Thou canst not wake him now ! 
Away ! he will not answer but to me — 
For none like me hath loved him ! He is mine ! 
Ye shall not rend him from me. 

Pro. Oh ! he knew [more ! 

Thy love, poor maid ! Shrink from me now no 
He knew thy heart — but who shall tell him now 
The depth, th' intenseness, and the agony, 
Of my suppress'd affection ? I have learn'd 
All his high worth in time to deck his grave. 
Is there not power in the strong spirit's woe 
To force an answer from the viewless world 
Of the departed ? Raimond ! — speak I — forgive ! 
Raimond ! my victor, my deliverer ! hear ! 
— Why, what a world is this ! Truth ever bursts 
On the dark soul too late : and glory crowns 
Th' unconscious dead. There comes an hour to 

break 
The mightiest hearts ! — My son ! my son ! is this 
A day of triumph ! Ay, for thee alone ! 

[He throws himself upon the body of Raimond. 
Curtain falls. 



Our ardent hearts to this ! Oh, weep thou not ! 
There is no home for liberty, or love, 
Beneath these festal skies ! Be not deceived ; 
My way lies far beyond ! I shall be soon 
That viewless thing, which, with its mortal weeds 
Casting off meaner passions, yet, we trust, 
Forgets not how to love ! 

Con. And must this be 1 
Heaven, thou art merciful ! — Oh ! bid our souls 
Depart together ! 

Raim. Constance ! there is strength 
Within thy gentle heart, which hath been proved 
Nobly, for me : arouse it once again ! 
Thy grief unmans me — and I fain would meet 
That which approaches, as a brave man yields 
With proud submission to a mightier foe. 
— It is upon me now ! 

Con. I will be calm. 
Let thy head rest upon my bosom, Raimond, 
And I will so suppress its quick deep sobs, 
They shall but rock thee to thy rest. There is 
A world (ay, let us seek it !) where no blight 
Falls on the beautiful rose of youth, and there 
I shall be with thee soon ! 

Proctda and Anselmo enter. Procida, on seeing 
Raimond, starts bade. 

Ans. Lift up thy head, 
Brave youth, exultingly ! for lo ! thine hour 
Of glory comes ! Oh ! doth it come too late 1 
E'en now the false Alberti hath confess'd 
That guilty plot, for which thy life was doom'd 
To be th' atonement. 

Raim. 'Tis enough ! Rejoice, 
Rejoice, my Constance ! for I leave a name 
O'er which thou may'st weep proudly ! 

[He sinks bach. 
To thy breast 
Fold me yet closer, for an icy dart 
Hath touch'd my veins. 

Con. And must thou leave me, Raimond ? 
Alas ! thine eye grows dim — its wandering glance 
Is full of dreams. 

Bairn. Haste, haste, and tell my father 
I was no traitor ! 

Pro. (rushing forward.) To thy father's heart 
Return, forgiving all thy wrongs — return ! 
Speak to me, Raimond ! — thou wert ever kind, 
And brave, and gentle ! Say that all the past 
Shall be forgiven ! That word from none but thee 
My lips e'er ask'd.— Speak to me once, my boy, 
My pride, my hope ! And it is with thee thus 1 
Look on me yet !— Oh ! must this woe be borne? 

Raim. Off with this weight of chains ! itisnotmeet 



For a 



186 



ANNOTATIONS ON THE VESPERS OF PALERMO. 



ANNOTATIONS ON THE " VESPERS OF PALERMO. 

" The Vespers of Palermo was the earliest of the dramatic 
productions of our author. The period in which the scene is 
laid, is sufficiently known from the title of the play. The 
whole is full of life and action. The same high strain of moral 
propriety marks this piece as all others of her writings. The 
hero is an enthusiast for glory, for liberty, and for virtue : 
and on his courage, his forbearance, the integrity of his love, 
making the firmness of his patriotism appear doubtful, rests 
the interest of the plot. It is worthy of remark, that some of 
its best parts have already found their way into an excellent 
selection of pieces for schools, and thus contribute to give 
lessons of morality to those who are most susceptible of the 
interest of tragedy. 

" It may not be so generally remembered, that the same 
historical event was made the subject of a French tragedy, 
about the same time that the English one was written, and 
by a poet now of great popularity in France. We hesitate 
not to give the preference to Mrs Hemans, for invention and 
interest, accurate delineation of character, and adherence to 
probability. Both the tragedies are written in a style of 
finished elegance. "—Professor Norton in North American 
Review, 1827. 



It was in 1821, as mentioned in the prefatory note, that 
Mrs Hemans composed The Vespers of Palermo, and that the 
MS. was handed over to the Managing Committee of Covent 
Garden. Two years elapsed before her doubts regarding its 
fate were removed, and the result was as follows. In giving 
it here, let the reader remember, meanwhile, that we are 
carried forward, for the space of time mentioned, beyond the 
pale of our literary chronology : — 

" After innumerable delays, uncertainties, and anxieties," 
writes her sister, " the fate of the tragedy, so long in abeyance, 
was now drawing to a crisis. Every thing connected with its ap- 
proaching representation was calculated to raise the highest 
hopes of success. ' All is going on,' writes Mrs Hemans on the 
27th November, ' as well as I could possibly desire. Only a 
short time will yet elapse before the ordeal is over. I received 
a message yesterday from Mr Kemble, informing me of the 
unanimous opinion of the green room conclave in favour of 
the piece, and exhorting me to " be of good courage." 
Murray has given me two hundred guineas for the copyright 
of the " tragedy, drama, poem, composition, or book," as it 
is called in the articles which I signed yesterday. The ma- 
nagers made exceptions to the name of Procida — why or where- 
fore I know not ; and out of several others which I proposed to 
them, The Vespers of Palermo has been finally chosen.' 

" Under these apparently favourable auspices, the piece 
was produced at Covent Garden on the night of December 
12, 1823, the principal characters being taken by Mr Young, 
Mr C. Kemble, Mr Yates, Mrs Bartley, and Miss F. H. Kelly. 
Two days had to elapse before the news of its reception could 
reach St Asaph. Not only Mrs Hemans's own family, but 
all her more immediate friends and neighbours, were wrought 
up to a pitch of intense expectation. Various newspapers 
were ordered expressly for the occasion, and the post-office 
was besieged at twelve o'clock at night, by some of the more 
zealous of her friends, eager to be the first heralds of the 
triumph so undoubtingly anticipated. The boys had worked 
themselves up into an uncontrollable state of excitement, and 
were all lying awake ' to hear about mamma's play ;' and 
perhaps her bitterest moment of mortification was, when she 
went up to their bedsides, which she nerved herself to do almost 
immediately, to announce that all their bright visions were 



dashed to the ground, and that the performance had ended 
in all but a failure. The reports in the newspapers were 
strangely contradictory, and, in some instances, exceedingly 
illiberal : but all which were written in anything like an un- 
biassed tone, concurred entirely with the private accounts, 
not merely of partial friends, but of perfectly unprejudiced 
observers, in attributing this most unexpected result to the 
inefficiency of the actress who personated Constance, and 
who absolutely seemed to be under the influence of some 
infatuating spell, calling down hisses, and even laughter, on 
scenes the most pathetic and affecting, and, to crown all, 
dying gratuitously at the close of the piece. The acting of 
Young and Kemble in the two Procidi, was universally pro- 
nounced to have been beyond all praise, and their sustained 
exertions showed a determination to do all possible justice to 
the author. It was admitted that, at the fall of the curtain, 
applause decidedly predominated : still the marks of disap- 
probation were too strong to be disregarded by the managers, 
who immediately decided upon withdrawing the piece, till 
another actress should have fitted herself to undertake the 
part of Constance, when they fully resolved to reproduce it. 
Mrs Hemans herself was very far from wishing that this fresh 
experiment should be made. ' Mr Kemble,' writes she to a 
friend, ' will not hear of The Vespers being driven off the stage. 
It is to be reproduced as soon as Miss Foote, who is now un- 
well, shall be sufficiently recovered to learn her part ; but 
I cannot tell you how I shrink, after the fiery ordeal through 
which I have passed, from such another trial. Mr Kemble 
attributes the failure, without the slightest hesitation, to what 
he delicately calls " a singularity of intonation in one of the 
actresses." I have also heard from Mr Milman, Mr J. T. 
Coleridge, and several others, with whom there is but one 
opinion as to the cause of the disaster.' 

" Few would, perhaps, have borne so unexpected a reverse 
with feelings so completely untinged with bitterness, or with 
greater readiness to turn for consolation to the kindness and 
sympathy which poured in upon her from every side. It 
would be doing her injustice to withhold her letter to Mr 
Milman, written in the first moments of disappointment. 

' Bronwylfa, Dec. 16, 1823. 
" ' My dear Sir, — It is difficult to part with the hopes of 
three years, without some painful feelings; but your kind 
letter has been of more service to me than I can attempt to 
describe. I will not say that it revives my hopes of success, 
because I think it better that I should fix my mind to pre- 
vent those hopes from gaining any ascendency ; but it sets in 
so clear a light the causes of failure, that my disappointment 
has been greatly softened by its perusal. The many friends 
from whom I have heard on this occasion, express but one 
opinion. As to Miss Kelly's acting, and its fatal effect on 
the fortunes of the piece, I cannot help thinking that it will 
be impossible to counteract the unfavourable impression which 
this must have produced, and I almost wish, as far as relates 
to my own private feelings, that the attempt may not be 
made. I shall not, however, interfere in any way on the 
subject. I have not heard from Mr Kemble ; but I have 
written both to him and to Mr Young, to express my grate- 
ful sense of their splendid exertions in support of the piece. 
As a female, I cannot help feeling rather depressed by the 
extreme severity with which I have been treated in the morn- 
ing papers. I know not why this should be, for I am sure 
I should not have attached the slightest value to their praise ; 
but I suppose it is only a proper chastisement for my teme- 
rity — for a female who shrinks from such things has certainly 
no business to write tragedies. 



STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE III. 



187 



" ' For your support and assistance, as well as that of my 
other friends, I cannot be too grateful ; nor can I ever consider 
any transaction of my life unfortunate, which has given me 
the privilege of calling you a friend, and afforded me the 
recollection of so much long-tried kindness. — Ever believe 
me, my dear sir, most faithfully, your obliged 

" ' P. Hemans.' 

"Notwithstanding the determination of the managers again 
to bring forward The Vespers, a sort of fatality seemed to 
attend upon it, and some fresh obstacle was continually arising 
to prevent the luckless Constance from obtaining an efficient 
representative on the London stage. Under these circum- 
stances, Mr Kemble at length confessed that he could not 
recommend the reproduction of the piece ; and Mrs Hemans 
acquiesced in the decision, with feelings which partook rather 
of relief than of disappointment. She never ceased to speak 
in the warmest terms of Mr Kemble's liberal and gentlemanly 
conduct, both before and after the appearance of the piece, and 
of his surpassing exertions at the time of its representation. 

" It was with no small degree of surprise that, in the 
course of the following February, she learned, through the 
medium of a letter from Mrs Joanna Baillie, 1 that the 
tragedy was shortly to be represented at the Edinburgh theatre 
— Mrs Henry Siddons undertaking the part of Constance. 
The play was brought out on the 5th of April, and the fol- 
lowing particulars of its reception, transmitted by one of the 
zealous friends who had been instrumental in this arrange- 
ment, will prove how well their kindly intentions were fulfilled : 

" ' The tragedy went off in a style which exceeded our most 
sanguine expectations, and was announced for repetition on 
Wednesday, amidst thunders of applause. The actors seem 
to have done wonders, and every one appeared to strain every 
nerve, as if all depended on his own exertions. Vandenhoff 
was the elder, and Calcraft the younger Procida. The first 
recognition between father and son, was acted by them to 
such perfection, that one of the most hearty and unanimous 
plaudits followed that ever was heard. 

1 Though Mrs Hemans had never the advantage of heing personally 
known to this gifted and excellent lady, the occasional interchange of 
letters which, from this time forward, was kept up between them, was 
regarded as one of the most valuable privileges she possessed. It was 
always delightful to her when she could love the character, as well as 
admire the talents, of a celebrated author ; and never, surely, was there 
an example better fitted to call forth the willing tribute of veneration, 
both towards the woman and the poetess. In one of her letters to Mrs 
Baillie, Mrs Hemans thus apologised for indulging in a strain of egotism, 



" ' Every reappearance of the gentle Constance won the 
spectators more and more. The scene in the judgment-hall 
carried off the audience into perfect illusion, and handker- 
chiefs were out in every quarter. Mrs Siddons's searching 
the faces of the judges, which she did in a wild manner, as if 
to find Raimond's father was to save him, was perfect. 
She flew round the circle — went, as if distracted, close up to 
judge after judge — paused before Procida, and fell prostrate 
at his feet. The effect was magical, and was manifested by 
three repeated bursts of applause.' 

" A neatly turned and witty epilogue, surmised, though 
not declared, to be the production of Sir "Walter Scott, was 
recited by Mrs H. Siddons. When deference to a female was 
there laid claim to, loud bursts of applause ensued ; but when 
generosity to a stranger was bespoken , the house absolutely 
rang with huzzas." 

"'I knew how much you would rejoice,' wrote Mrs 
Hemans to a warm-hearted friend, ' in the issue of my Edin- 
burgh trial ; it has, indeed, been most gratifying, and I think, 
amongst the pleasantest of its results I may reckon a letter 
from Sir Walter Scott, of which it has put me in possession. 
I had written to thank him for the kindness he had shown 
with regard to the play, and hardly expected an answer ; but 
it came, and you would be delighted with its frank and un- 
affected kindliness. He acknowledges the epilogue, " stuffed," 
as he says it was, " with parish jokes, and bad puns ; " and 
courteously says, that his country folks have done more credit 
to themselves than to me, by their reception of The Vespers.' 

"To another uncompromising champion she wrote : — 'I 
must beg you will " bear our faculties meekly : " you really 
seem to be rather in an intoxicated state ; and if we indulge 
ourselves in this way, I am afraid we shall have something to 
sober us. I dare say I must expect some sharp criticism from 
Edinburgh ere all this is over ; but any thing which deserves 
the name of criticism I can bear. I believe I could point out 
more faults in The Vespers myself than any one has done 
yet.'"— Memoir, pp. 69-76. 

which the nature of their acquaintance might scarcely seem to justify. 
— " The kindly warmth of heart which seems to breathe over all your 
writings, and the power of early association over my mind, make me 
feel, whenever I address you, as if I were writing to a friend." 

It would have been very dear to her could she have foreseen how 
graciously that "kindly warmth of heart " would be extended to those 
of her children, who are more fortunate than herself, in enjoying the 
personal intercourse she would have prized so highly. 



STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF 
GEORGE THE THIRD. 

" Among many nations was there no King like him." — Nehemiah. 
" Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man fallen this day 
in Israel ? "—Samuel. 

Anotheb warning sound ! The funeral bell, 
Startling the cities of the isle once more 

With measured tones of melancholy swell, 
Strikes on th' awaken'd heart from shore to 
shore. 

He at whose coming monarchs sink to dust, 
The chambers of our palaces hath trod ; 



And the long-suffering spirit of the just, 

Pure from its ruins, hath return'd to God ! 
Yet may not England o'er her father weep : 
Thoughts to her bosom crowd, too many, and too 
deep. 

Vain voice of Reason, hush ! — they yet must flow, 

The unrestrain'd, involuntary tears ; 
A thousand feelings sanctify the woe, 

Roused by the glorious shades of vanish'd years. 
Tell us no more 'tis not the time for grief, 

Now that the exile of the soul is past, 
And Death, blest messenger of heaven's relief, 

Hath borne the wanderer to his rest at last ; 



188 



STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF GEOEGE III. 



For him, eternity hath tenfold day : [way. 

"We feel, we know, 'tis thus — yet nature will have 

What though amidst us, like a blasted oak, 

Sadd'ning the scene where once it nobly reign'd, 
A dread memorial of the lightning stroke, 

Stamp'd with its fiery record, he remain'd : 
Around that shatter'd tree still fondly clung 

Th' undying tendrils of our love, which drew 
Fresh nurture from its deep decay, and sprung 

Luxuriant thence, to Glory's ruin true ; 
While England hung her trophies on the stem, 
That desolately stood, unconscious e'en of them. 

Of them unconscious ! Oh, mysterious doom ! 

Who shall unfold the counsels of the skies ] 
His was the voice which roused, as from the tomb, 

The realm's high soul to loftiest energies ! 
His was the spirit o'er the isles which threw 

The mantle of its fortitude ; and wrought 
In every bosom, powerful to renew 

Each dying spark of pure and generous thought ; 
The star of tempests ! beaming on the mast, 1 
The seaman's torch of Hope, midst perils deepen- 
ing fast. 

Then fromth' unslumbering influence of his worth, 

Strength, as of inspiration, fiU'd the land ; 
A young but quenchless flame went brightly forth, 

Kindled by him — who saw it not expand ! 
Such was the will of heaven. The gifted seer, 

Who with his God had communed, face to face, 
And from the house of bondage and of fear, 

In faith victorious, led the Chosen Race ; 
He through the desert and the waste their guide, 
Saw dimly from afar the promised land — and died. 

full of days and virtues ! on thy head 

Centred the woes of many a bitter lot ; 
Fathers have sorrow'd o'er their beauteous dead, 
Eyes, quench'd in night, the sunbeam have for- 
got; 
Minds have striven buoyantly with evil years, 
And sunk beneath their gathering weight at 
length ; 
But Pain for thee had fill'd a cup of tears, 
Where every anguish mingled all its strength ; 
By thy lost child we saw thee weeping stand, 
And shadows deep around fell from th' Eternal's 
hand. 

1 The glittering meteor, like a star, which often appears 
about a ship during tempests ; if seen upon the main-mast, 
is considered by the sailors as an omen of good weather. — 
See Dam pier's Voyages. 



Then came the noon of glory, which thy dreams 

Perchance of yore had faintly prophesied ; 
But what to thee the splendour of its beams 1 

The ice-rock glows not midst the summer's 
pride ! 
Nations leap'd up to joy— as streams that burst, 

At the warm touch of spring, their frozen chain, 
And o'er the plains, whose verdure once thy nursed, 

Roll in exulting melody again ; 
And bright o'er earth the long majestic line 
Of England's triumphs swept, to rouse all hearts 
— but thine. 

Oh ! what a dazzling vision, by the veil 

That o'er thy spirit hung, was shut from thee, 
When sceptred chieftains throng'd with palms to 
hail 

The crowning isle, th' anointed of the sea ! 
Within thy palaces the lords of earth 

Met to rejoice — rich pageants glitter'd by, 
And stately revels imaged, in their mirth, 

The old magnificence of chivalry. 
They reach'd not thee — amidst them, yet alone, 
Stillness and gloom begirt one dim and shadowy 
throne. 

Yet there was mercy still ! If joy no more 

Within that blasted circle might intrude, 
Earth had no grief, whose footstep might pass o'er 

The silent limits of its solitude ! 
If all unheard the bridal song awoke 

Our hearts' full echoes, as it swell'd on high ; 
Alike unheard the sudden dirge, that broke 

On the glad strain, with dread solemnity ! 
If the land's rose unheeded wore its bloom, 
Alike unfelt the storm that swept it to the tomb. 

And she who,' tried through all the stormy past— 

Severely, deeply proved, in many an hour — 
Watch'd o'er thee, firm and faithful to the last, 

Sustain'd, inspired, by strong affection's power ; 
If to thy soul her voice no music bore — 

If thy closed eye and wandering spirit caught 
No light from looks, that fondly would explore 

Thy mien, for traces of responsive thought ; 
Oh ! thou wert spared the pang, that would have 

thrill'd 
Thine inmost heart, when death that anxious 
bosom still' d. 

Thy loved ones fell around thee. Manhood's prime, 
Youth with its glory — in its fulness, age — 

All, at the gates of their eternal clime 

Lay down, and closed their mortal pilgrimage ; 



STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE III. 



189 



The land wore ashes for its perish'd flowers, 
The grave's imperial harvest. Thou meanwhile 

Didst Walk unconscious through thy royal towers, 
The one that wept not in the tearful isle ! 

As a tired warrior, on his battle-plain, 

Breathes deep in dreams amidst the mourners 
and the slain. 

And who can tell what visions might be thine % 
The stream of thought, though broken, still 



was pure 



Still o'er that wave the stars of heaven might shine 
Where earthly image would no more endure ! 

Though many a step, of once familiar sound, 
Came as a stranger's o'er thy closing ear, 

And voices breathed forgotten tones around, 
Which that paternal heart once thrill'd to hear : 

The mind hath senses of its own, and powers 

To people boundless worlds, in its most wander- 
ing hours. 

Nor might the phantoms to thy spirit known 

Be dark or wild, creations of remorse ; 
Unstain'd by thee, the blameless past had thrown 

No fearful shadows o'er the future's course : 
For thee no cloud, from memory's dread abyss, 

Might shape such forms as haunt the tyrant's 
eye; 
And, closing up each avenue of bliss, 

Murmur their summons, to " despair and die !" 
No ! e'en though joy depart, though reason cease, 
Still virtue's ruin'd home is redolent of peace. 

They might be with thee still — the loved, the tried, 

The fair, the lost — they might be with thee still ! 
More softly seen, in radiance purified 

From each dim vapour of terrestrial ill. 
Long after earth received them, and the note 

Of the last requiem o'er their dust was pour'd, 
As passing sunbeams o'er thy soul might float 

Those forms, from us withdrawn — to thee re- 
stored ! 
Spirits of holiness, in light reveal'd, 
To commune with a mind whose source of tears 
was seal'd. 

Came they with tidings from the worlds above, 

Those viewless regions where the weary rest % 
Sever'd from earth, estranged from mortal love, 

Was thy mysterious converse with the blest] 
Or shone their visionary presence bright 

With human beauty ] — did their smiles renew 
Those days of sacred and serene delight, 

When fairest beings in thy pathway grew ?• 



Oh ! heaven hath balm for every wound it makes, 
Healing the broken heart; it smites, but ne'er 
forsakes. 

These may be fantasies — and this alone, 

Of all we picture in our dreams, is sure ; 
That rest, made perfect, is at length thine own, 

Rest, in thy God immortally secure ! 
Enough for tranquil faith ; released from all [brow, 

The woes that graved heaven's lessons on thy 
No cloud to dim, no fetter to enthrall, 

Haply thine eye is on thy people now ; 
Whose love around thee still its offerings shed, 
Though vainly sweet, as flowers, grief's tribute to 
the dead. 

But if th' ascending, disembodied mind, 

Borne on the wings of morning to the skies, 
May cast one glance of tenderness behind 

On scenes once hallow'd by its mortal ties, 
How much hast thou to gaze on ! All that lay 

By the dark mantle of thy soul conceal' d — 
The might, the majesty, the proud array 

Of England's march o'er many a noble field — 
All spread beneath thee, in a blaze of light, 
Shine like some glorious land view'd from an 
Alpine height. 

Away, presumptuous thought ! Departed saint ! 

To thy freed vision what can earth display 
Of pomp, of royalty, that is not faint, 

Seen from the birth-place of celestial day] 
Oh ! pale and weak the sun's reflected rays, 

E'en in their fervour of meridian heat, 
To him who in the sanctuary may gaze 

On the bright cloud that fills the mercy-seat ! 
And thou may'st view, from thy divine abode, 
The dust of empires flit before a breath of God. 

And yet we mourn thee ! Yes, thy place is void 

Within our hearts ! there veil'd thine image dwelt, 
But cherish'd still ; and o'er that tie destroy' d, 

Though faith rej oice, fond nature still must melt. 
Beneath the long-loved sceptre of thy sway, 

Thousands were born, who now in dust repose; 
And many a head, with years and sorrows gray, 

Wore youth's bright tresses when thy star arose ; 
And many a glorious mind, since that fair dawn, 
Hath fill'd our sphere with light, now to its source 
withdrawn. 

Earthquakes have rock'd the nations: things 
revered, 
Th' ancestral fabrics of the world, went down 



190 



STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE III. 



In ruins, from whose stones Ambition rear'd 
His lonely pyramid of dread renown. 

But when the fires that long had slumber'd, pent 
Deep in men's bosoms, with volcanic force, 

Bursting their prison-house, each bulwark rent, 
And swept each holy barrier from their course, 

Firm and unmoved, amidst that lava-flood, 

Still, by thine arm upheld, our ancient landmarks 
stood. 

Be they eternal ! — be thy children found 

Still to their country's altars true like thee ! 
And while " the name of Briton " is a sound 

Of rallying music to the brave and free, 
With the high feelings at the word which swell, 

To make the breast a shrine for Freedom's flame, 
Be mingled thoughts of him who loved so well, 

Who left so pure, its heritage of fame ! 
Let earth with trophies guard the conqueror's dust, 
Heaven in our souls embalms the memory of the 
just. 

All else shall pass away ! — the thrones of kings, 

The very traces of their tombs depart ; 
But number not with perishable things 

The holy records Virtue leaves the heart, 
Heir-looms from race to race ! And oh ! in days 

When, by the yet unborn, thy deeds are blest, 
When our sons learn "as household words " thy 
praise, 

Still on thine offspring may thy spirit rest ! 
And many a name of that imperial line, 
Father and patriot ! blend, in England's songs, 
with thine ! 

[" The last poem is to the memory of his late Majesty : 
unlike courtly themes in general, this is one of the deepest 
and most lasting interest. Buried as the King had long been 
in mental and visual darkness, and dead to the common joys 
of the world, his death, perhaps, did not occasion the shock, 
or the piercing sorrow which we have felt on some other 
public losses ; but the heart must be cold indeed that could, 
on reflection, regard the whole fortune and fate of that vene- 



rable, gallant, tender-hearted, and pious man, without a 
more than common sympathy. There was something in his 
character so truly national — his very errors were of so amiable 
a kind, his excellences bore so high a stamp, his nature was 
so genuine and unsophisticated, he stood in his splendid 
court, amidst his large and fine family, so true a husband, 
so good a father, so safe an example — he so thoroughly 
understood the feelings, and so duly appreciated the virtues, 
even the uncourtly virtues of his subjects — and, with all this, 
the sorrows from heaven rained down upon his head in so 
' pitiless and pelting a storm : ' all these — his high qualities 
and unparalleled sufferings — form such a subject for poetry, 
as nothing, we should imagine, but its difficulty and the 
expectation attending it, would prevent from being seized 
upon by the greatest poets of the day. We will not say that 
Mrs Hemans has filled the whole canvass as it might have 
been filled, but unquestionably her poem is beyond all com- 
parison with any which we have seen on the subject ; it is 
full of fine and pathetic passages, and it leads us up through 
all the dismal colourings of the foreground to that bright and 
consoling prospect which should close every Christian's reflec- 
tions on such a matter. An analysis of so short a poem is 
wholly unnecessary, and we have already transgressed our 
limits ; we will, therefore, give but one extract of that sooth- 
ing nature alluded to, and release our readers : — • 

• Yet was there mercy still ! If joy no more,' etc. 

" It is time to close this article. 1 Our readers will have 
seen, and we do not deny, that we have been much interested 
by our subject. Who or what Mrs Hemans is, we know not : 
we have been told that, like a poet of antiquity — 

' Tristia vitse 

Solatur cantu,' 

If it be so, (and the most sensible hearts are not uncommonly 
nor unnaturally the most bitterly wounded,) she seems, from 
the tenor of her writings, to bear about her a higher and a 
surer balsam than the praises of men, or even the ' sacred 
muse' herself can impart. Still there is a pleasure, an inno- 
cent and an honest pleasure, even to a wounded spirit, in 
fame fairly earned ; and such fame as may wait upon our 
decision, we freely and conscientiously bestow. In our 
opinion , all her poems are elegant and pure in thought and 
language ; her later poems are of higher promise, they are 
vigorous, picturesque, and pathetic." — Quarterly Review, 
vol. xxiv.] 

1 This critique, from the pen of the venerahle and distinguished 
Editor, William Gifford, Esq., comprehended strictures on "The 
Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy," — " Tales and Historic 
Scenes in Verse," — " Translations from Camoens," etc., — " The 
Sceptic," and " Stanzas to the Memory of the late King." 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



191 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



SECOND SERIES. 

[After the first collection of her Tales and Historic Scenes, it is pretty evident that Mrs Hemans contemplated a second 
series, although her design was never so extensively carried out as to induce the publication of another volume under the 
same title. But, as the compositions we refer to all belong to this period of our author's literary progress, we have ventured 
not only so to class, but so to christen them, as Malachi Malgrovvther would say, " for uniformity's sake." 

THE MAREMMA. 



[" Nello della Pietra had espoused a lady of noble 
family at Sienna, named Madonna Pia. Her beauty was 
the admiration of Tuscany, and excited in the heart of her 
husband a jealousy, which, exasperated by false reports and 
groundless suspicions, at length drove him to the desperate 
resolution of Othello. It is difficult to decide whether the 
lady was quite innocent, but so Dante represents her. Her 
husband brought her into the Maremma, which, then as 
now, was a district destructive of health. He never told his 
unfortunate wife the reason of her banishment to so danger- 
ous a country. He did not deign to utter complaint or accu- 
sation. He lived with her alone, in cold silence, without 
answering her questions, or listening to her remonstrances. 
He patiently waited till the pestilential air should destroy the 
health of this young lady. In a few months she died. 
Some chronicles, indeed, tell us that Nello used the dagger 
to hasten her death. It is certain that he survived her, 
plunged in sadness and perpetual silence. Dante had, in 
this incident, all the materials of an ample and very poetical 
narrative. But he bestows on it only four verses. He meets 
in Purgatory three spirits. One was a captain who fell fight- 
ing on the same side with him in the battle of Campaldino ; 
the second, a gentleman assassinated by the treachery of the 
House of Este ; the third was a woman unknown to the poet, 
and who, after the others had spoken, turned towards him 

with these words : — 

Eecorditi di me ; che son la Pia, 

Sienna mi fe, disfecemi Maremma, 

Salsi colui che inanellata pria 

Disposando m' avea eon la sua gemma.' " 

Purgatorio, cant. v. 
— Edinburgh Review, No. Mi.] 

There are bright scenes beneath Italian skies, 

Where glowing suns there purest light diffuse, 

Uncultured flowers in wild profusion rise, 

And nature lavishes her warmest hues ; 

But trust thou not her smile, her balmy breath — 

Away ! her charms are but the pomp of Death ! 

He in the vine-clad bowers, unseen, is dwelling, 
Where the cool shade its freshness round thee 

throws ; 
His voice, in every perfumed zephyr swelling, 
With gentlest whisper lures thee to repose ; 
And the soft sounds that through the foliage sigh 
But woo thee still to slumber and to die, 

Mysterious danger lurks, a syren there, 

Not robed in terrors, or announced in gloom, 

But stealing o'er thee in the scented air, 

And veil'd in flowers, that smile to deck thy tomb; 

How may we deem, amidst their deep array, 

That heaven and earth but flatter to betray 1 



Sunshine, and bloom, and verdure ! Can it be 
That these but charm us with destructive wiles ? 
Where shall we turn, Nature, if in thee 
Danger is mask'd in beauty — death in smiles 1 
Oh ! still the Circe of that fatal shore, [yore ! 
Where she, the Sun's bright daughter, dwelt of 

There, year by year, that secret peril spreads, 
Disguised in loveliness, its baleful reign, 
And viewless blights o'er many a landscape sheds, 
Gay with the riches of the south, in vain ; 
O'er fairy bowers and palaces of state 
Passing unseen, to leave them desolate. 

And pillar'd halls, whose airy colonnades 
Were form'd to echo music's choral tone, 
Are silent now, amidst deserted shades, 
Peopled by sculpture's graceful forms alone ; 
And fountains dash unheard, by lone alcoves, 
Neglected temples, and forsaken groves. 

And there, where marble nymphs, in beauty 

gleaming, 
Midst the deep shades of plane and cypress rise. 
By wave or grot might Fancy linger, dreaming 
Of old Arcadia's woodland deities. 
Wild visions ! — there no sylvan powers convene : 
Death reigns the genius of th' Elysian scene. 

Ye, too, illustrious hills of Kome ! that bear 
Traces of mightier beings on your brow, 
O'er you that subtle spirit of the air 
Extends the desert of his empire now ; 
Broods o'er the wrecks of altar, fane, and dome, 
And makes the Caesars' ruin'd halls his home. 

Youth, valour, beauty, oft have felt his power. 
His crown'd and chosen victims : o'er their lot 
Hath fond affection wept — each blighted flower 
In turn was loved and mourn'd, and is forgot. 
But one who perish'd, left a tale of woe, 
Meet for as deep a sigh as pity can bestow. 

A voice of music, from Sienna's walls, 
Is floating joyous on the summer air ; 
And there are banquets in her stately halls, 
And graceful revels of the gay and fair, 



192 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



And brilliant wreaths the altar have array'd, 
Where meet her noblest youth and loveliest maid. 

To that young bride each grace hath Nature given 
Which glows on Art's divinest dream : her eye 
Hath a pure sunbeam of her native heaven — 
Her cheek a tinge of morning's richest dye ; 
Fair as that daughter of the south, whose form 
Still breathes and charms, in Vinci's colours warm. 1 

But is she blest 1 — for sometimes o'er her smile 
A soft sweet shade of pensiveness is cast ; 
And in her liquid glance there seems awhile 
To dwell some thought whose soul is with the past; 
Yet soon it flies — a cloud that leaves no trace, 
On the sky's azure, of its dwelling-place. 

Perchance, at times, within her heart may rise 
Remembrance of some early love or woe, 
Faded, yet scarce forgotten — in her eyes 
Wakening the half-formed tear that may not flow, 
Yet radiant seems her lot as aught on earth, 
Where still some pining thought comes darkly o'er 
our mirth. 

The world before her smiles — its changeful gaze 
She hath not proved as yet ; her path seems gay 
With flowers and sunshine, and the voice of praise 
Is still the joyous herald of her way ; 
And beauty's light around her dwells, to throw 
O'er every scene its own resplendent glow. 

Such is the young Bianca — graced with all 
That nature, fortune, youth, at once can give ; 
Pure in their loveliness, her looks recall 
Such dreams as ne'er life's early bloom survive ; 
And when she speaks, each thrilling tone is fraught 
With sweetness, born of high and heavenly thought. 

And he to whom are breathed her vows of faith 
Is brave and noble — child of high descent, 
He hath stood fearless in the ranks of death, 
Mid slaughter'd heaps, the warrior's monument ; 
And proudly marshall'd his carroccio's 2 way 
Amidst the wildest wreck of war's array. 

And his the chivalrous commanding mien, [grace ; 
Where high-born grandeur blends with courtly 
Yet may a lightning glance at times be seen, 
Of fiery passions, darting o'er his face, 

1 An allusion to Leonardo da Vinci's picture of his wife 
Mona Lisa, supposed to be the most perfect imitation of 
nature ever exhibited in painting-. 

2 A sort of consecrated war-chariot. 



And fierce the spirit kindling in his eye — [die. 
But e'en while yet we gaze, its quick wild flashes 

And calmly can Pietra smile, concealing, 

As if forgotten, vengeance, hate, remorse ; 

And veil the workings of each darker feeling, 

Deep in his soul concentrating its force ; 

But yet he loves — Oh ! who hath loved, nor known 

Affection's power exalt the bosom all its own 1 

The days roll on — and still Bianca's lot 
Seems as a path of Eden. Thou mightst deem 
That grief, the mighty chastener, had forgot 
To wake her soul from life's enchanted dream ; 
And, if her brow a moment's sadness wear, 
It sheds but grace more intellectual there. 

A few short years, and all is changed ; her fate 
Seems with some deep mysterious cloud o'ercast. 
Have jealous doubts transform'd to wrath and hate, 
The love whose glow expression's power surpass'd? 
Lo ! on Pietra's brow a sullen gloom 
Is gathering day by day, prophetic of her doom. 

Oh ! can he meet that eye, of light serene, 
Whence the pure spirit looks in radiance forth, 
And view that bright intelligence of mien 
Form'd to express but thoughts of loftiest worth, 
Yet deem that vice within that heart can reign 1 
— How shall he e'er confide in aught on earth again? 

In silence oft, with strange vindictive gaze, 
Transient, yet fill'd with meaning, stern and wild, 
Her features, calm in beauty, he surveys, 
Then turns away, and fixes on her child 
So dark a glance a% thrills a mother's mind 
With some vague fear scarce own'd, and undefined. 

There stands a lonely dwelling, by the wave 
Of the blue deep which bathes Italia's shore, 
Far from all sounds, but rippling seas that lave 
Gray rocks with foliage richly shadow'd o'er, 
And sighing winds, that murmur through the wood. 
Fringing the beach of that Hesperian flood. 

Fair is that house of solitude — and fair 
The green Maremma, far around it spread,* 
A sun-bright waste of beauty ; yet an air 
Of brooding sadness o'er the scene is shed, 
No human footstep tracks the lone domain, 
The desert of luxuriance glows in vain. 

And silent are the marble halls that rise 

'Mid founts, and cypress walks and olive groves : 






THE MAREMMA. 



193 



All sleep in sunshine, 'neath cerulean skies, 
And still around the sea-breeze lightly roves ; 
Yet every trace of man reveals alone, 
That there life once hath flourish' d — and is gone. 

There, till around them slowly, softly stealing, 
The summer air, deceit in every sigh, [ing, 

Came fraught with death, its power no sign reveal- 
Thy sires, Pietra, dwelt in days gone by ; 
And strains of mirth and melody have flow'd 
Where stands, all voiceless now, the still abode. 

And thither doth her Lord remorseless bear 
Bianca with her child. His alter'd eye 
And brow a stern and fearful calmness wear, 
While his dark spirit seals their doom — to die ; 
And the deep bodings of his victim's heart 
Tell her from fruitless hope at once to part. 

It is the summer's glorious prime — and blending 
Its blue transparence with the skies, the deep, 
Each tint of heaven upon its breast descending, 
Scarce murmurs as it heaves in glassy sleep, 
And on its wave reflects, more softly bright, 
That lovely shore of solitude and light. 

Fragrance in each warm southern gale is breathing, 
Deck'd with young flowers the rich Maremma 

glows, 
Neglected vines the trees are wildly wreathing, 
And the fresh myrtle in exuberance blows, 
And, far around, a deep and sunny bloom 
Mantles the scene, as garlands robe the tomb. 

Yes ! 'tis thy tomb, Bianca ! fairest flower ! 
The voice that calls thee speaks in every gale, 
Which, o'er thee breathing with insidious power, 
Bids the young roses of thy cheek turn pale ; 
And fatal in its softness, day by day, 
Steals from that eye some trembling spark away. 

But sink not yet ; for there are darker woes, 
Daughter of Beauty ! in thy spring-morn fading — 
Sufferings more keen for thee reserved, than those 
Of lingering death, which thus thine eye are shading ! 
Nerve then thy heart to meet that bitter lot : 
Tis agony — but soon to be forgot ! 

WTiat deeper pangs maternal hearts can wring, 
Than hourly to behold the spoiler's breath 
Shedding, as mildews on the bloom of spring, 
O'er Infancy's fair cheek the blight of death 1 
To gaze and shrink, as gathering shades o'ercast 
The pale smooth brow, yet watch it to the last ! 



Such pangs were thine, young mother ! Thou 

didst bend 
O'er thy fair boy, and raise his drooping head ; 
And faint and hopeless, far from every friend, 
Keep thy sad midnight vigils near his bed, 
And watch his patient, supplicating eye 
Fix'd upon thee — on thee ! — who couldst no aid 

supply ! 

There was no voice to cheer thy lonely woe 
Through those dark hours : to thee the wind's low 

sigh, 
And the faint murmur of the ocean's flow, 
Came like some spirit whispering — "He must die !" 
And thou didst vainly clasp him to the breast, 
His young and sunny smile so oft with hope had 

blest. 

'Tis past — that fearful trial ! — he is gone ! 
But thou, sad mourner ! hast not long to weep ; 
The hour of nature's charter'd peace comes on, 
And thou shalt share thine infant's holy sleep. 
A few short sufferings yet — and death shall be 
As a bright messenger from heaven to thee. 

But ask not — hope not — one relenting thought 
From him who doom'd thee thus to waste away, 
Whose heart, with sullen, speechless vengeance 

fraught, 
Broods in dark triumph o'er thy slow decay ; 
And coldly, sternly, silently can trace 
The gradual withering of each youthful grace. 

And yet the day of vain remorse shall come, 
When thou, bright victim ! on his dreams shalt rise 
As an accusing angel — and thy tomb, 
A martyr's shrine, be hallo w'd in his eyes ! 
Then shall thine innocence his bosom wring, 
More than thy fancied guilt with jealous pangs 
could sting. 

Lift thy meek eyes to heaven — for all on earth, 
Young sufferer ! fadesbeforethee. Thou art lone : 
Hope, Fortune, Love, smiled brightly on thy birth, 
Thine hour of death is all Affliction's own ! 
It is our task to suffer — and our fate 
To learn that mighty lesson, soon or late. 

The season's glory fades — the vintage lay 
Through joyous Italy resounds no more ; 
But mortal loveliness hath pass'd away, 
Fairer than aught in summer's glowing store. 
Beauty and youth are gone — behold them such 
As death hath made them with his blighting touch ! 



194 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



The summer's breath came o'er them — and they 

died ! 
Softly it came to give luxuriance birth, 
Call'd forth young nature in her festal pride, 
But bore to them their summons from the earth ! 
Again shall blow that mild, delicious breeze, 
And wake to life and light all flowers — but these. 

No sculptured urn, nor verse thy virtues telling, 
lost and loveliest one ! adorns thy grave ; 
But o'er that humble cypress-shaded dwelling 
The dew-drops glisten and the wild-flowers wave — 
Emblems more meet, in transient light and bloom, 
For thee, who thus didst pass in brightness to the 
tomb ! 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

[The Secret Tribunal, 1 which attained such formidable 
power towards the close of the fourteenth century, is men- 
tioned in history as an institution publicly known so early as 
in the year 1211. Its members, who were called Free Judges, 
were unknown to the people, and were bound by a tremen- 
dous oath, to deliver up their dearest friends and relatives, 
without exception, if they had committed any offence cog- 
nisable by the tribunal. They were also under an obligation 
to relate all they knew concerning the affair, to cite the 
accused, and, in case of his condemnation, to pursue and put 
him to death wherever he might be met with. The proceed- 
ings of this tribunal were carried on at night, and with the 
greatest mystery; and though it was usual to summon a 
culprit three times before sentence was passed, yet persons 
obnoxious to it were sometimes accused and condemned 
without any citation. After condemnation, it was almost 
impossible for any one to escape the vengeance of the Free 
Judges, for their commands set thousands of assassins in 
motion , who had sworn not to spare the life of their nearest 
relation, if required to sacrifice it, but to execute the decrees 
of the Order with the most devoted obedience, even should 
they consider the object of their pursuit as the most innocent 
of men. Almost all persons of rank and fortune sought 
admission into the society ; there were Free Judges even 
amongst the magistrates of the imperial cities, and every 
prince had some of their Order in his council. When a 
member of this tribunal was not of himself strong enough to 
seize and put to death a criminal, he was not to lose sight of 
him until he met with a sufficient number of his comrades 
for the purpose, and these were obliged, upon his making 
certain signs, to lend him immediate assistance, without 
asking any questions. It was usual to hang up the person 
condemned, with a willow branch, to the first tree; but if 
circumstances obliged them to despatch him with a poniard, 
they left it in his body, that it might be known he had not 
been assassinated, but executed by a Free Judge. All the 
transactions of the Sages or Seers (as they called themselves) 
were enveloped in mystery, and it is even now unknown by 
what signs they revealed themselves to each other. At length 
their power became so extensive and redoubtable, that the 

1 See the works of Baron Bock, and Professor Kramer. 



Princes of the Empire found it necessary to unite their exer- 
tions for its suppression, in which they were at length suc- 
cessful. 

The following account of this extraordinary association is 
given by Madame de Stael : — " Des juges mysterieux, in- 
connus Tun a l'autre, toujours masques, et se rassemblant 
pendant la nuit, punissoient dans le silence, et gravoient 
seulement sur le poignard qu'ils enfoncoient dans le sein du 
coupable ce mot terrible : Tribunal Secret. lis pre- 
venoient le condamne, en faisant crier trois fois sous les 
fenetres de sa maison, Malheur, Malheur, Malheur ! Alors 
l'infortune" savoit que par-tout, dans 1' Stranger, dans son 
concitoyen, dans son parent meme, il pouvoit trouver son 
meurtrier. La solitude, la foule, les villes, les campagnes, 
tout etoit rempli par la presence invisible de cette conscience 
armie qui poursuivoit les criminels. On concoit comment 
cette terrible institution pouvoit etre necessaire, dans un 
temps ou chaque homme £toit fort contre tous, au lieu que 
tous doivent etre forts contre chacun. II falloit que la jus- 
tice surprit le criminel avant qu' il put s'en deYendre ; mais 
cette punition qui planoit dans les airs comme une ombre 
vengeresse, cette sentence mortelle qui pouvoit receler le sein 
meme d'un ami, frappoit d'une invincible terreur." — 
L' Allemagne, vol. ii.] 



Night veil'd the mountains of the vine, 
And storms had roused the foaming Rhine, 
And, mingling with the pinewood's roar, 
Its billows hoarsely chafed the shore, 
While glen and cavern, to their moans 
Gave answer with a thousand tones : 
Then, as the voice of storms appall'd 
The peasant of the Odenwald, 1 
Shuddering he deem'd, that, far on high, 
'Twas the wild huntsman rushing by, 
Riding the blast with phantom speed, 
With cry of hound and tramp of steed, 
While his fierce train, as on they flew, 
Their horns in savage chorus blew, 
Till rock, and tower, and convent round, 
Rang to the shrill unearthly sound. 

Vain dreams ! far other footsteps traced 
The forest paths, in secret haste ; 
Far other sounds were on the night, 
Though lost amidst the tempest's might, 
That fill'd the echoing earth and sky 
With its own awful harmony. 
There stood a lone and ruin'd fane, 
Far in the Odenwald's domain, 
Midst wood and rock, a deep recess 
Of still and shadowy loneliness. 
Long grass its pavement had o'ergrown, 
The wild-flower waved o'er the altar stone, 
The night-wind rock'd the tottering pile, 
As it swept along the roofless aisle, 

1 The Odenwald, a forest district near the Rhine, adjoin- 
ing the territories of Darmstadt. 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 



195 



For the forest boughs and the stormy sky- 
Were all that minster's canopy. 

Many a broken image lay 
In the mossy mantle of decay, 
And partial light the moonbeams darted 
O'er trophies of the long-departed ; 
For there the chiefs of other days, 
The mighty, slumber'd, with their praise : 
'Twas long since aught but the dews of heaven 
A tribute to their bier had given, 
Long since a sound but the moaning blast 
Above their voiceless home had pass'd. 
— So slept the proud, and with them all 
The records of their fame and fall ; 
Helmet and shield, and sculptured crest, 
Adorn'd the dwelling of their rest, 
And emblems of the Holy Land 
Were carved by some forgotten hand. 
But the helm was broke, the shield defaced, 
And the crest through weeds might scarce be traced ; 
And the scatter'd leaves of the northern pine 
Half hid the palm of Palestine. 
So slept the glorious — lowly laid, 
As the peasant in his native shade ; 
Some hermit's tale, some shepherd's rhyme, 
All that high deeds could win from time ! 

What footsteps move, with measured tread, 
Amid those chambers of the dead 1 
What silent, shadowy beings glide 
Low tombs and mouldering shrines beside, 
Peopling the wild and solemn scene 
With forms well suited to its mien ] 
Wanderer, away ! let none intrude 
On their mysterious solitude ! 
Lo ! these are they, that awful band, 
The secret Watchers of the land, 
They that, unknown and uncontroll'd, 
Their dark and dread tribunal hold. 
They meet not in the monarch's dome, 
They meet not in the chieftain's home ; 
But where, unbounded o'er their heads, 
All heaven magnificently spreads, 
And from its depths of cloudless blue 
The eternal stars their deeds may view ! 
Where'er the flowers of the mountain sod 
By roving foot are seldom trod ; 
Where'er the pathless forest waves, 
Or the ivy clothes forsaken graves ; 
Where'er wild legends mark a spot, 
By mortals shunn'd, but unforgot, 
There, circled by the shades of night, 
They judge of crimes that shrink from light ; 



And guilt, that deems its secret known 
To the One unslumbering eye alone, 
Yet hears their name with a sudden start, 
As an icy touch had chill'd its heart, 
For the shadow of th' avenger's hand 
Rests dark and heavy on the land. 

There rose a voice from the ruin's gloom, 
And woke the echoes of the tomb, 
As if the noble hearts beneath 
Sent forth deep answers to its breath. 

" When the midnight stars are burning, 
And the dead to earth returning ; 
When the spirits of the blest 
Rise upon the good man's rest ; 
When each whisper of the gale 
Bids the cheek of guilt turn pale ; 
In the shadow of the hour 
That o'er the soul hath deepest power, 
Why thus meet we, but to call 
For judgment on the criminal ? 
Why, but the doom of guilt to seal, 
And point th' avenger's holy steel ] 
A fearful oath has bound our souls, 
A fearful power our arm controls ! 
There is an ear awake on high 
E'en to thought's whispers ere they die ; 
There is an eye whose beam pervades 
All depths, all deserts, and all shades : 
That ear hath heard our awful vow, 
That searching eye is on us now ! 
Let him whose heart is unprofaned, 
Whose hand no blameless blood hath stain'd — 
Let him, whose thoughts no record keep 
Of crimes in silence buried deep, 
Here, in the face of heaven, accuse 
The guilty whom its wrath pursues ! " 

'Twas hush'd — that voice of thrilling sound ! 
And a dead silence reign'd around. 
Then stood forth one, whose dim-seen form 
Tower'd like a phantom in the storm ; 
Gathering his mantle, as a cloud, 
With its dark folds his face to shroud, 
Through pillar'd arches on he pass'd, 
With stately step, and paused at last, 
Where, on the altar's mouldering stone, 
The fitful moonbeam brightly shone ; 
Then on the fearful stillness broke 
Low, solemn tones, as thus he spoke : 

" Before that eye whose glance pervades 
All depths, all deserts, and all shades ; 



196 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 


Heard by that ear awake on high 


" By Him, th' All-seeing and Unseen, 


E'en to thought's whispers ere they die — 


Who is for ever, and hath been, 


With all a mortal's awe I stand, 


And by th' Atoner's cross adored, 


Yet with pure heart and stainless hand. 


And by th' avenger's holy sword, 


To heaven I lift that hand, and call 


By truth eternal and divine, 


For judgment on the criminal ; 


Accuser ! wilt thou swear to thine 1 ?" 


The earth is dyed with bloodshed's hues — 


— " The cross upon my heart is prest, 


It cries for vengeance. I accuse ! " 


I hold the dagger to my breast ; 




If false the tale whose truth I swear, 


" Name thou the guilty ! say for whom 


Be mine the murderer's doom to bear ! " 


Thou claim'st th' inevitable doom ! 






Then sternly rose the dread reply — 


" Albert of Lindheim — to the skies 


" His days are number'd — he must die ! 


The voice of blood against him cries ; 


There is no shadow of the night 


A brother's blood — his hand is dyed 


So deep as to conceal his flight ; 


With the deep stain of fratricide. 


Earth doth not hold so lone a waste 


One hour, one moment, hath reveal'd 


But there his footsteps shall be traced ; 


What years in darkness had conceal' d, 


Devotion hath no shrine so blest 


But all in vain — the gulf of time 


That there in safety he may rest. 


Refused to close upon his crime ; 


Where'er he treads, let Vengeance there 


And guilt that slept on flowers shall know 


Around him spread her secret snare ! 


The earthquake was but hush'd below ! 


In the busy haunts of men, 


— Here, where amidst the noble dead, 


In the still and shadowy glen, 


Awed by their fame, he dare not tread ; 


When the social board is crown'd, 


Where, left by him to dark decay, 


When the wine-cup sparkles round ; 


Their trophies moulder fast away, 


When his couch of sleep is prest, 


Around us and beneath us lie 


And a dream his spirit's guest ; 


The relics of his ancestry — 


When his bosom knows no fear, 


The chiefs of Lindheim's ancient race, 


Let the dagger still be near, 


Each in his last low dwelling-place. 


Till, sudden as the lightning's dart, 


But one is absent — o'er his grave 


Silent and swift it reach his heart ! 


The palmy shades of Syria wave ; 


One warning voice, one fearful word, 


Far distant from his native Rhine, 


Ere morn beneath his towers be heard, 


He died unmourn'd, in Palestine ! 


Then vainly may the guilty fly, 


The Pilgrim sought the Holy Land, 


Unseen, unaided, — he must die ! 


To perish by a brother's hand ! 


Let those he loves prepare his tomb, 


Peace to his soul ! though o'er his bed 


Let friendship lure him to his doom ! 


No dirge be pour'd, no tear be shed, 


Perish his deeds, his name, his race, 


Though all he loved his name forget, 


Without a record or a trace ! 


They live who shall avenge him yet ! " 


Away ! be watchful, swift, and free, 




To wreak th' invisible's decree. 


" Accuser ! how to thee alone 


'Tis pass'd — th' avenger claims his prey : 


Became the fearful secret known?" 


On to the chase of death — away ! " 


" There is an hour when vain remorse 


And all was still. The sweeping blast 


First wakes in her eternal force ; 


Caught not a whisper as it pass'd ; 


When pardon may not be retrieved, 


The shadowy forms were seen no more, 


When conscience will not be deceived. 


The tombs deserted as before ; 


He that beheld the victim bleed, 


And the wide forest waved immense 


Beheld, and aided in the deed — 


In dark and lone magnificence. 


When earthly fears had lost their power 


In Lindheim's towers the feast had closed ; 


Reveal'd the tale in such an hour, 


The song was hush'd, the bard reposed ; 


Unfolding, with his latest breath, 


Sleep settled on the weary guest, 


All that gave keener pangs to death." 


And the castle's lord retired to rest. 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 



197 



To rest ! The captive doom'd to die 
May slumber, when his hour is nigh ; 
The seaman, when the billows foam, 
Rock'd on the mast, may dream of home ; 
The warrior, on the battle's eve, 
May win from care a short reprieve : 
But earth and heaven alike deny 
Their peace to guilt's o'erwearied eye ; 
And night, that brings to grief a calm, 
To toil a pause, to pain a balm, 
Hath spells terrific in her course, 
Dread sounds and shadows, for remorse — 
Voices, that long from earth had fled, 
And steps and echoes from the dead ; 
And many a dream whose forms arise 
Like a darker world's realities ! 
Call them not vain illusions — born, 
But for the wise and brave to scorn ! 
Heaven, that the penal doom defers, 
Hath yet its thousand ministers, 
To scourge the heart, unseen, unknown, 
In shade, in silence, and alone, 
Concentrating in one brief hour 
Ages of retribution's power ! 
— If thou wouldst know the lot of those, 
Whose souls are dark with guilty woes, 
Ah ! seek them not where pleasure's throng 
Are listening to the voice of song ; 
Seek them not where the banquet glows, 
And the red vineyard's nectar flows : 
There, mirth may flush the hollow cheek, 
The eye of feverish joy may speak, 
And smiles, the ready mask of pride, 
The canker-worm within may hide. 
Heed not those signs ! they but delude ; 
Follow, and mark their solitude ! 

The song is hush'd, the feast is done, 
And Lindheim's lord remains alone — 
Alone in silence and unrest, 
With the dread secret of his breast ; 
Alone with anguish and with fear, 
— There needs not an avenger here ! 
Behold him ! — Why that sudden start 1 
Thou hear'st the beating of thy heart ! 
Thou hear'st the night-wind's hollow sigh, 
Thou hear'st the rustling tapestry ! 
No sound but these may near thee be ; 
Sleep ! all things earthly sleep — but thee. 

No ! there are murmurs on the air, 
And a voice is heard that cries — " Despair ! " 
And he who trembles fain would deem 
'Twas the whisper of a waking dream. 



Was it but this 1 Again, 'tis there : 
Again is heard — " Despair ! Despair ! " 
'Tis past — its tones have slowly died 
In echoes on the mountain side ; 
Heard but by him, they rose, they fell. 
He knew their fearful meaning well, 
And shrinking from the midnight gloom, 
As from the shadow of the tomb, 
Yet shuddering, turn'd in pale dismay, 
When broke the dawn's first kindling ray, 
And sought, amidst the forest wild, 
Some shade where sunbeam never smiled. 

Yes ! hide thee, guilt ! The laughing morn 
Wakes in a heaven of splendour born ! 
The storms that shook the mountain crest 
Have sought their viewless world of rest. 
High from his cliffs, with ardent gaze, 
Soars the young eagle in the blaze, 
Exulting, as he wings his way, 
To revel in the fount of day ; 
And brightly past his banks of vine, 
In glory, flows the monarch Rhine ; 
And joyous peals the vintage song 
His wild luxuriant shores along, 
As peasant bands, from rock and dell, 
Their strains of choral transport swell ; 
And cliffs of bold fantastic forms, 
Aspiring to the realm of storms, 
And woods around, and waves below, 
Catch the red Orient's deepening glow, 
That lends each tower, and convent spire, 
A tinge of its ethereal fire. 

Swell high the song of festal hours ! 
Deck ye the shrine with living flowers ! 
Let music o'er the waters breathe ! 
Let beauty twine the bridal wreath ! 
While she, whose blue eye laughs in light, 
Whose cheek with love's own hue is bright, 
The fair-hair'd maid of Lindheim's hall, 
Wakes to her nuptial festival. 
Oh ! who hath seen, in dreams that soar 
To worlds the soul would fain explore, 
When, for her own blest country pining, 
Its beauty o'er her thought is shining, 
Some form of heaven, whose cloudless eye 
Was all one beam of ecstasy ! 
Whose glorious brow no traces wore 
Of guilt, or sorrow known before ! 
Whose smile, undimm'd by aught of earth, 
A sunbeam of immortal birth, 
Spoke of bright realms, far distant lying, 
Where love and joy are both undying ! 



198 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 


E'en thus — a vision of delight, 


Yet all that mark'd his alter'd mien 


A beam to gladden mortal sight, 


Seem'd struggling to be still unseen. 


A flower whose head no storm had bow'd, 


— With shrinking heart, with nameless fear, 


Whose leaves ne'er droop'd beneath a cloud, — 


Young Ella met the brow austere, 


Thus, by the world unstain'd, untried, 


And the wild look, which seem'd to fly 


Seem'd that beloved and lovely bride ; 


The timid welcome of her eye. 


A being all too soft and fair 


Was that a lover's gaze, which chill'd 


One breath of earthly woe to bear ! 


The soul, its awful sadness thrill'd ] 


Yet lives there many a lofty mind, 


A lover's brow, so darkly fraught 


In light and fragile form enshrined ; 


With all the heaviest gloom of thought 1 


And oft smooth cheek and smiling eye 


She trembled — ne'er to grief inured, 


Hide strength to suffer and to die ! 


By its dread lessons ne'er matured, 


Judge not of woman's heart in hours 


Unused to meet a glance of less 


That strew her path with summer flowers, 


Than all a parent's tenderness, 


When joy's full cup is mantling high, 


Shuddering she felt, through every sense, 


When flattery's blandishments are nigh ; 


The deathlike faintness of suspense. 


Judge her not then ! within her breast 




Are energies unseen, that rest ! 


High o'er the windings of the flood, 


They wait their call — and grief alone 


On Lindheim's terraced rocks they stood, 


May make the soul's deep secrets known. 


Whence the free sight afar might stray 


Yes ! let her smile midst pleasure's train, 


O'er that imperial river's way, 


Leading the reckless and the vain ! 


Which, rushing from its Alpine source, 


Firm on the scaffold she hath stood, 


Makes one long triumph of its course, 


Besprinkled with the martyr's blood ; 


Rolling in tranquil grandeur by, 


Her voice the patriot's heart hath steel'd, 


Midst Nature's noblest pageantry. 


Her spirit gloved on battle-field ; 


But they, o'er that majestic scene, 


Her courage freed from dungeon's gloom 


With clouded brow and anxious mien, 


The captive brooding o'er his doom ; 


In silence gazed ! — for Ella's heart 


Her faith the fallen monarch saved, 


Fear'd its own terrors to impart ; 


Her love the tyrant's fury braved ; 


And he, who vainly strove to hide 


No scene of danger or despair, 


His pangs, with all a warrior's pride, 


But she hath won her triumph there ! 


Seem'd gathering courage to unfold 




Some fearful tale, that must be told. 


Away ! nor cloud the festal morn 




With thoughts of boding sadness born ! 


At length his mien, his voice, obtain'd 


Far other, lovelier dreams are thine, 


A calm, that seem'd by conflicts gain'd, 


Fair daughter of a noble line ! 


As thus he spoke — " Yes ! gaze a while 


Young Ella ! from thy tower, whose height 


On the bright scenes that round thee smile ; 


Hath caught the flush of Eastern light, 


For, if thy love be firm and true, 


Watching, while soft the morning air 


Soon must thou bid their charms adieu ! 


Parts on thy brow the sunny hair, 


A fate hangs o'er us, whose decree 


Yon bark, that o'er the calm blue tide 


Must bear me far from them or thee ; 


Bears thy loved warrior to his bride — 


Our path is one of snares and fear, 


Him, whose high deeds romantic praise 


I lose thee, if I linger here ! 


Hath hallow'd with a thousand lays. 


Droop not, beloved ! thy home shall rise 




As fair, beneath far-distant skies ; 


He came — that youthful chief, — he came 


As fondly tenderness and truth 


That favour'd lord of love and fame ! 


Shall cherish there thy rose of youth. 


His step was hurried — as if one 


But speak ! and, when yon hallow'd shrine 


Who seeks a voice within to shun ; 


Hath heard the vows which make thee mine, 


His cheek was varying, and express'd 


Say, wilt thou fly with me, no more 


The conflict of a troubled breast ; 


To tread thine own loved mountain shore, 


His eye was anxious — doubt, and dread, 


But share and soothe, repining not, 


And a stern grief, might there be read : 


The bitterness of exile's lot 1 " 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 



199 



" Ulric ! thou know'st how dearly loved 
The scenes where first my childhood roved' 
The woods, the rocks, that tower supreme 
Above our own majestic stream, 
The halls where first my heart beat high 
To the proud songs of chivalry. 
All, all are dear — yet these are ties 
Affection well may sacrifice ; 
Loved though they be, where'er thou art, 
There is the country of my heart ! 
Yet is there one, who, reft of me, 
Were lonely as a blasted tree ; 
One, who still hoped my hand should close 
His eyes, in Nature's last repose ; 
Eve gathers round him — on his brow 
Already rests the wintry snow ; 
His form is bent, his features wear 
The deepening lines of age and care ; 
His faded eye hath lost its fire ; — 
Thou wouldst not tear me from my sire ? 
Yet tell me all — thy woes impart, 
My Ulric ! to a faithful heart, 
Which sooner far — oh ! doubt not this — 
Would share thy pangs, than others' bliss ! " 

" Ella, what wouldst thou 1 — 'tis a tale 
Will make that cheek as marble pale ! 
Yet what avails it to conceal 
All thou too soon must know and feel ] 
It must, it must be told — prepare, 
And nerve that gentle heart to bear. 
But I— oh, was it then for me 
The herald of thy woes to be ! 
Thy soul's bright calmness to destroy, 
And wake thee first from dreams of joy 1 
Forgive ! — I would not ruder tone 
Should make the fearful tidings known, 
I would not that unpitying eyes 
Should coldly watch thine agonies ! 
Better 'twere mine — that task severe, 
To cloud thy breast with grief and fear. 

" Hast thou not heard, in legends old, 
Wild tales that turn the life-blood cold, 
Of those who meet in cave or glen, 
Far from the busy walks of men ; 
Those who mysterious vigils keep, 
When earth is wrapt in shades and sleep, 
To judge of crimes, like Him on high, 
In stillness and in secrecy] 
Th* unknown avengers, whose decree 
'Tis fruitless to resist or flee 1 
Whose name hath cast a spell of power 
O'er peasant's cot and chieftain's tower ] 



Thy sire — oh, Ella ! hope is fled ! 
Think of him, mourn him, as the dead ! 
Their sentence, theirs, hath seal'd his doom, 
And thou may'st weep as o'er his tomb ! 
Yes, weep ! — relieve thy heart oppress'd, 
Pour forth thy sorrows on my breast ! 
Thy cheek is cold — thy tearless eye 
Seems fix'd in frozen vacancy. 
Oh, gaze not thus ! — thy silence break : 
Speak ! if 'tis but in anguish, speak !" 

She spoke at length, in accents low, 
Of wild and half-indignant woe : 
— "He doom'd to perish ! he decreed 
By their avenging arm to bleed ! 
He, the renown' d in holy fight, 
The Paynim's scourge, the Christian's might ! 
Ulric ! what mean'st thou % — not a thought 
Of that high mind with guilt is fraught ! 
Say, for which glorious trophy won, 
Which deed of martial prowess done, 
Which battle-field, in days gone by, 
Gain'd by his valour, must he die 1 
Away ! 'tis not his lofty name 
Their sentence hath consign'd to shame— 
'Tis not his life they seek. Recall 
Thy words, or say he shall not fall ! " 

Then sprung forth tears, whose blest relief 
Gave pleading softness to her grief : 
" And wilt thou not, by all the ties 
Of our affianced love," she cries, 
" By all my soul hath fix'd on thee, 
Of cherish'd hope for years to be, 
Wilt thou not aid him ? wilt not thou 
Shield his gray head from danger now 1 
And didst thou not, in childhood's mom, 
That saw our young affection born, 
Hang round his neck, and climb his knee, 
Sharing his parent smile with me 1 
Kind, gentle Ulric ! best beloved ! 
Now be thy faith in danger proved ! 
Though snares and terrors round him wait, 
Thou wilt not leave him to his fate ! 
Turn not away in cold disdain ! 
— Shall thine own Ella plead in vain 1 
How art thou changed ! and must I bear 
That frown, that stern, averted air ] 
What mean they 1" 

" Maiden, need'st thou ask "? 
These features wear no specious mask. 
Doth sorrow mark this brow and eye 
With characters of mystery 1 



200 TALES AND HISTOEIC SCENES. 


This — this is anguish ! Can it be ! 


Was this the maid who seem'd, erewhile, 


And plead'st thou for my sire to me ? 


Born but to meet life's vernal smile ] 


Know, though thy prayers a death-pang give, 


A being, almost on the wing, 


He must not meet my sight — and live ! 


As an embodied breeze of spring 1 


Well may'st thou shudder ! Of the band 


A child of beauty and of bliss, 


Who watch in secret o'er the land, 


Sent from some purer sphere to this — 


Whose thousand swords 'tis vain to shun, 


Not, in her exile, to sustain 


Th' unknown, th' unslumbering — I am one ! 


The trial of one earthly pain ; 


My arm defend him ! What were then 


But, as a sunbeam, on to move, 


Each vow that binds the souls of men, 


Wakening all hearts to joy and love ? 


Sworn on the cross, and deeply seal'd 


That airy form, with footsteps free, 


By rites that may not be reveal'd 1 


And radiant glance — could this be she 1 


— A breeze's breath, an echo's tone, 


From her fair cheek the rose was gone, 


A passing sound, forgot when gone ! 


Her eye's blue sparkle thence had flown ; 


Nay, shrink not from me — I would fly, 


Of all its vivid glow bereft, 


That he by other hands may die ! 


Each playful charm her lip had left. 


What ! think'st thou I would live to trace 


But what were these 1 on that young face, 


Abhorrence in that angel face ? 


Far nobler beauty fill'd their place ! 


Beside thee should the lover stand, 


'Twas not the pride that scorns to bend, 


The father's life-blood on his brand 1 


Though all the bolts of heaven descend ; 


No ! I have bade my home adieu, 


Not the fierce grandeur of despair, 


For other scenes mine eyes must view. 


That half exults its fate to dare ; 


Look on me, love ! Now all is known, 


Nor that wild energy which leads 


Ella ! must I fly alone T 


Th' enthusiast to fanatic deeds : 




Her mien, by sorrow unsubdued, 


But she was changed. Scarce heaved her 


Was fix'd in silent fortitude ; 


breath; 


Not in its haughty strength elate, 


She stood like one prepared for death, 


But calmly, mournfully sedate. 


And wept no more ; then, casting down 


'Twas strange, yet lovely to behold 


From her fair brows the nuptial crown, 


That spirit in so fair a mould, 


As joy's last vision from her heart, 


As if a rose-tree's tender form, 


Cried, with sad firmness, " We must part ! 


Unbent, unbroke, should meet the storm. 


'Tis past! These bridal flowers, so frail 




They may not brook one stormy gale, 


One look she cast, where firmness strove 


Survive — too dear as still thou art — 


With the deep pangs of parting love ; 


Each hope they imaged ; — we must part ! 


One tear a moment in her eye 


One struggle yet — and all is o'er : 


Dimm'd the pure light of constancy ; 


We love — and may we meet no more ! 


And pressing, as to still her heart, 


Oh ! little know'st thou of the power 


She turn'd in silence to depart. 


Affection lends in danger's hour, 


But Ulric, as to frenzy wrought, 


To deem that fate should thus divide 


Then started from his trance of thought : 


My footsteps from a father's side ! 




Speed thou to other shores — I go 


" Stay thee ! oh, stay ! — It must not be — 


To share his wanderings and his woe. 


All, all were well resign'd for thee ! 


Where'er his path of thorns may lead, 


Stay ! till my soul each vow disown, 


Whate'er his doom, by heaven decreed, 


But those which make me thine alone ! 


If there be guardian powers above 


If there be guilt — there is no shrine 


To nerve the heart of filial love, 


More holy than that heart of thine : 


If courage may be won by prayer, 


There be my crime absolved — I take 


Or strength by duty — I can bear ! 


The cup of shame for thy dear sake. 


Farewell ! — though in that sound be years 


Of shame ! — oh no ! to virtue true, 


Of blighted hopes and fruitless tears, 


Where thou art, there is glory too ! 


Though the soul vibrate to its knell 


Go now ! and to thy sire impart, 


Of joys departed — yet, farewell ! 


He hath a shield in Ulric's heart, 






A TALE OF THE SECKET TKIBUNAL. 201 


And thou a home ! Kemain, or flee, 


And silence, o'er each green recess, 


In life, in death — I follow thee ! " 


Brooded in misty sultriness. 




But soon a low and measiired sound 


" There shall not rest one cloud of shame, 


Broke on the deep repose around ; 


Ulric ! on thy lofty name ; 


From Lindheim's tower a glancing oar 


There shall not one accusing word 


Bade the stream ripple to the shore. 


Against thy spotless faith be heard ! 


Sweet was that sound of waves which parted 


Thy path is where the brave rush on, 


The fond, the true, the noble-hearted ; 


Thy course must be where palms are won : 


And smoothly seem'd the bark to glide, 


Where banners wave, and falchions glare, 


And brightly flow'd the reckless tide, 


Son of the mighty ! be thou there ! 


Though, mingling with its current, fell 


Think on the glorious names that shine 


The last warm tears of love's farewell. 


Along thy sire's majestic line ; 




Oh. last of that illustrious race ! 


PART II. 


Thou wert not born to meet disgrace ! 


Well, well I know each grief, each pain, 


Sweet is the gloom of forest shades, 


Thy spirit nobly could sustain; 


Their pillar'd walks and dim arcades, 


E'en I unshrinking see them near, 


With all the thousand flowers that blow, 


And what hast thou to do with fear 1 


A waste of loveliness, below. 


But when have warriors calmly borne 


To him whose soul the world would fly, 


The cold and bitter smile of scorn ] 


For nature's lonely majesty : 


'Tis not for thee ! thy soul hath force 


To bard, when wrapt in mighty themes, 


To cope with all things — but remorse ; 


To lover, lost in fairy dreams, 


And this my brightest thought shall be, 


To hermit, whose prophetic thought 


Thou hast not braved its pangs for me. 


By fits a gleam of heaven hath caught, 


Go ! break thou not one solemn vow ; 


And, in the visions of his rest, 


Closed be the fearful conflict now ; 


Held bright communion with the blest : 


Go ! but forget not how my heart 


'Tis sweet, but solemn ! There alike 


Still at thy name will proudly start, 


Silence and sound with awe can strike. 


When chieftains hear, and minstrels tell, 


The deep Eolian murmur made 


Thy deeds of glory. Fare thee well ! " 


By sighing breeze and rustling shade, 


— And thus they parted. Why recall 


And cavern'd fountain gushing nigh, 


The scene of anguish known to all ] 


And wild-bee's plaintive lullaby : 


The burst of tears, the blush of pride, 


Or the dead stillness of the bowers, 


That fain those fruitless tears would hide ; 


When dark the summer-tempest lowers ; 


The lingering look, the last embrace, 


When silent nature seems to wait 


Oh ! what avails it to retrace 1 


The gathering thunder's voice of fate ; 


They parted — in that bitter word 


When the aspen scarcely waves in air, 


A thousand tones of grief are heard, 


And the clouds collect for the lightning's glare — 


Whose deeply-seated echoes rest 


Each, each alike is awful there, 


In the fair cells of every breast. 


And thrills the soul with feelings high, 


Who hath not known, who shall not know, 


As some majestic harmony. 


That keen yet most familiar woe ] 




Where'er affection's home is found, 


But she, the maid, whose footsteps traced 


It meets her on the holy ground ; 


Each green retreat in breathless haste — 


The cloud of every summer hour, 


Young Ella — linger'd not to hear 


The canker-worm of every flower. 


The wood-notes, lost on mourner's ear. 


Who but hath proved, or yet shall prove, 


The shivering leaf, the breeze's play, 


That mortal agony of love ? 


The fountain's gush, the wild-bird's lay — 




These charm not now ; her sire she sought, 


The autumn moon slept bright and still 


With trembling frame, with anxious thought, 


On fading wood and purple hill ; 


And, starting if a forest deer 


The vintager had hush'd his lay, 


But moved the rustling branches near, 


The fisher shunn'd the blaze of day, 


First felt that innocence may fear. 



202 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 


She reach'd a lone and shadowy dell, 


Shall the gay nuptial board be spread, 


Where the free sunbeam never fell ; 


The festal garland bind my head, 


'Twas twilight there at summer noon, 


And thou in grief, in peril, roam, 


Deep night beneath the harvest moon, 


And make the wilderness thy home ? 


And scarce might one bright star be seen 


No ! I am here with thee to share 


Gleaming the tangled boughs between ; 


All suffering mortal strength may bear ; 


For many a giant rock around 


And, oh ! whate'er thy foes decree, 


Dark in terrific grandeur frown'd, 


In life, in death, in chains, or free — 


And the ancient oaks, that waved on high, 


Well, well I feel, in thee secure ; 


Shut out each glimpse of the blessed sky. 


Thy heart and hand alike are pure ! " 


There the cold spring, in its shadowy cave, 




Ne'er to heaven's beam one sparkle gave, 


Then was there meaning in his look, 


And the wild flower, on its brink that grew, 


Which deep that trusting spirit shook ; 


Caught not from day one glowing hue. 


So wildly did each glance express 




The strife of shame and bitterness, — 


'Twas said, some fearful deed untold 


As thus he spoke : " Fond dreams, oh hence ! 


Had stain'd that scene in days of old ; 


Is this the mien of Innocence 1 


Tradition o'er the haunt had thrown 


This furrow'd brow, this restless eye — 


A shade yet deeper than its own ; 


Read thou this fearful tale, and fly ! 


And still, amidst th' umbrageous gloom, 


Is it enough 1 or must I seek 


Perchance above some victim's tomb, 


For words, the tale of guilt to speak 1 


O'ergrown with ivy and with moss, 


Then be it so — I will not doom 


There stood a rudely-sculptured Cross, 


Thy youth to wither in its bloom ; 


Which, haply, silent record bore 


I will not see thy tender frame 


Of guilt and penitence of yore. 


Bow'd to the earth with fear and shame. 




No ! though I teach thee to abhor 


Who by that holy sign was kneeling, 


The sire so fondly loved before ; 


With brow unutter'd pangs revealing, 


Though the dread effort rend my breast, 


Hands clasp'd convulsively in prayer, 


Yet shalt thou leave me and be blest ! 


And lifted eyes and streaming hair, 


Oh ! bitter penance ! thou wilt turn 


And cheek, all pale as marble mould, 


Away in horror and in scorn ; 


Seen by the moonbeam's radiance cold ? 


Thy looks, that still through all the past 


Was it some image of despair 


Affection's gentlest beams have cast, 


Still fix'd that stamp of woe to bear 1 


As lightning on my heart will fall, 


— Oh ! ne'er could Art her forms have wrought 


And I must mark and bear it all ! 


To speak such agonies of thought ! 


Yet though of life's best ties bereaved, 


Those deathlike features gave to view 


Thou shalt not, must not, be deceived ! 


A mortal's pangs too deep and true ! 




Starting he rose, with frenzied eye, 


" I linger — let me speed the tale 


As Ella's hurried step drew nigh ; 


Ere voice, and thought, and memory fail. 


He turn'd, with aspect darkly wild, 


Why should I falter thus to tell 


Trembling he stood — before his child ! 


What heaven so long hath known too well 1 


On, with a burst of tears, she sprung, 


Yes ! though from mortal sight conceal'd, 


And to her father's bosom clung. 


There hath a brother's blood appeal'd ! 




He died — 'twas not where banners wave, 


"Away ! what seek'st thou here?" he cried, 


And war-steeds trample on the brave ; 


" Art thou not now thine Ulric's bride ? 


He died — it was in Holy Land — 


Hence, leave me — leave me to await, 


Yet fell he not by Paynim hand ; 


In solitude, the storm of Fate ; 


He sleeps not with his sires at rest, 


Thou know'st not what my doom may be, 


With trophied shield and knightly crest ; 


Ere evening comes in peace to thee." 


Unknown his grave to kindred eyes, 




— But I can tell thee where he lies ! 


" My father ! shall the joyous throng 


It was a wild and savage spot, 


Swell high for me the bridal song 1 


But once beheld — and ne'er forgot ! 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 203 


I see it now — that haunted scene 


I've seen it in the fiery blast, 


My spirit's dwelling still hath been ; 


I've seen it where the sand-storms pass'd ; 


And he is there— I see him laid 


Beside the Desert's fount it stood, 


Beneath that palm-tree's lonely shade. 


Tinging the clear cold wave with blood ; 


The fountain-wave that sparkles nigh 


And e'en when viewless, by the fear 


Bears witness with its crimson dye ! 


Curdling my veins, I knew 'twas near ! 


I see th' accusing glance he raised, 


— Was near ! — I feel th' unearthly thrill, 


Ere that dim eye by death was glazed ; 


Its power is on my spirit still ! 


— Ne'er will that parting look forgive ! 


A mystic influence, undefined, 


I still behold it — and I live ! 


The spell, the shadow of my mind ! 


I live ! from hope, from mercy driven, 




A mark for all the shafts of heaven ! 


" Wilt thou yet linger ? Time speeds on ; 




One last farewell, and then begone ! 


" Yet had I wrongs. By fraud he won 


Unclasp the hands that shade thy brow, 


My birth-right ; and my child, my son, 


And let me read thine aspect now I 


Heir to high name, high fortune born, 


No ! stay thee yet, and learn the meed 


Was doom'd to penury and scorn, 


Heaven's justice to my crime decreed. 


An alien midst his fathers' halls, 


Slow came the day that broke my chain, 


An exile from his native walls. 


But I at length was free again ; 


Could I bear this ? The rankling thought, 


And freedom brings a burst of joy, 


Deep, dark, within my bosom wrought ; 


E'en guilt itself can scarce destroy. 


Some serpent, kindling hate and guile, 


I thought upon my own fair towers, 


Lurk'd in my infant's rosy smile, 


My native Rhine's gay vineyard bowers, 


And when his accents lisp'd my name, 


And in a father's visions, press'd 


They woke my inmost heart to flame ! 


Thee and thy brother to my breast. 


I struggled — are there evil powers 


— 'Twas but in visions. Canst thou yet 


That claim their own ascendant hours ? 


Recall the moment when we met % 


— Oh ! what should thine unspotted soul 


Thy step to greet me lightly sprung, 


Or know or fear of their control ? 


Thy arms around me fondly clung ; 


Why on the fearful conflict dwell ? 


Scarce aught than infant seraph less 


Vainly I struggled, and I fell- 


Seem'd thy pure childhood's loveliness. 


Cast down from every hope of bliss — 


But he was gone — that son for whom 


Too well thou know'st to what abyss ! 


I rush'd on guilt's eternal doom ; 




He for whose sake alone were given 


" 'Twas done ! — that moment hurried by 


My peace on earth, my hope in heaven — 


To darken all eternity. 


He met me not. A ruthless band, 


Years roll'd away, long evil years, 


Whose name with terror fill'd the land, 


Of woes, of fetters, and of fears ; 


Fierce outlaws of the wood and wild 


Nor aught but vain remorse I gain'd 


Had reft the father of his child. 


By the deep guilt my soul which stain'd. 


Foes to my race, the hate they nursed, 


For, long a captive in the lands 


Full on that cherish'd scion burst. 


Where Arabs tread their burning sands, 


Unknown his fate. — No parent nigh, 


The haunted midnight of the mind 


My boy ! my first-born ! didst thou die 1 


Was round me while in chains I pined, 


Or did they spare thee for a life 


By all forgotten, save by one 


Of shame, of rapine, and of strife 1 


Dread presence — which I could not shun. 


Livest thou, unfriended, unallied, 


— How oft, when o'er the silent waste 


A wanderer lost, without a guide 1 


Nor path nor landmark might be traced, 


Oh ! to thy fate's mysterious gloom 


When slumbering by the watch-fire's ray, 


Blest were the darkness of the tomb ! 


The Wanderers of the Desert lay, 




And stars, as o'er an ocean shone, 


" Ella ! 'tis done — my guilty heart 


Vigil I kept — but not alone ! 


Before thee all unveil' d — depart ! 


That form, that image, from the dead, 


Few pangs 'twill cost thee now to fly 


Still walk'd the wild with soundless tread ! 


From one so stain'd, so lost as I ; 



204 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Yet peace to thine untainted breast, 
E'en though it hate me ! — be thou blest ! 
Farewell ! thou shalt not linger here — 
E'en now th' avenger may be near : 
Where'er I turn, the foe, the snare, 
The dagger, may be ambush'd there ; 
One hour — and haply all is o'er, 
And we must meet on earth no more. 
No, nor beyond ! — to those pure skies 
Where thou shalt be, I may not rise ; 
Heaven's will for ever parts our lot, 
Yet, oh ! my child ! abhor me not ! 
Speak once ! to soothe this broken heart, 
Speak to me once ! and then depart ! " 

But still — as if each pulse were dead, 
Mute — as the power of speech were fled, 
Pale — as if life-blood ceased to warm 
The marble beauty of her form ; 
On the dark rock she lean'd her head, 
That seem'd as there 'twere riveted, 
And dropt the hands, till then which press'd 
Her burning brow, or throbbing breast. 
There beam'd no tear-drop in her eye, 
And from her lip there breathed no sigh. 
And on her brow no trace there dwelt 
That told she suffer' d or she felt. 
All that once glow'd, or smiled, or beam'd, 
Now fix'd, and quench'd, and frozen seem'd ; 
And long her sire, in wild dismay, 
Deem'd her pure spirit passd away. 

But life return'd. O'er that cold frame 
One deep convulsive shudder came ; 
And a faint light her eye relumed, 
And sad resolve her mien assumed. 
But there was horror in the gaze, 
Which yet to his she dared not raise; 
And her sad accents, wild and low, 
As rising from a depth of woe, 
At first with hurried trembling broke, 
But gather'd firmness as she spoke. 
— "I leave thee not — whate'er betide, 
My footsteps shall not quit thy side ; 
Pangs, keen as death my soul may thrill, 
But yet thou art my father still ! 
And, oh ! if stain'd by guilty deed, 
For some kind spirit, tenfold need, 
To speak of heaven's absolving love, 
And waft desponding thought above. 
Is there not power in mercy's wave 
The blood-stain from thy soul to lave ? 
Is there not balm to heal despair, 
In tears, in penitence, in prayer 1 



My father ! kneel at His pure shrine 
Who died to expiate guilt like thine, 
Weep — and my tears with thine shall blend, 
Pray — while my prayers with thine ascend, 
And, as our mingling sorrows rise, 
Heaven will relent, though earth despise ! " 

" My child, my child ! these bursting tears, 
The first mine eyes have shed for years, 
Though deepest conflicts they express, 
Yet flow not all in bitterness ! 
Oh ! thou hast bid a wither'd heart 
From desolation's slumber start ; 
Thy voice of pity and of love 
Seems o'er its icy depths to move 
E'en as a breeze of health, which brings 
Life, hope, and healing, on its wings. 
And there is mercy yet ! I feel 
Its influence o'er my spirit steal ; 
How welcome were each pang below, 
If guilt might be atoned by woe ! 
Think'st thou I yet may be forgiven 1 
Shall prayers unclose the gate of heaven 1 
Oh ! if it yet avail to plead, 
If judgment be not yet decreed, 
Our hearts shall blend their suppliant cry, 
Till pardon shall be seal'd on high ! 
Yet, yet I shrink ! — Will Mercy shed 
Her dews upon this fallen head ? 
—Kneel, Ella, kneel ! till full and free 
Descend forgiveness, won by thee ! " 

They knelt — before the Cross, that sign 
Of love eternal and divine ; 
That symbol, which so long hath stood 
A rock of strength, on time's dark flood, 
Clasp'd by despairing hands, and laved 
By the warm tears of nations saved. 
In one deep prayer their spirits blent, 
The guilty and the innocent ; 
Youth, pure as if from heaven its birth, 
Age, soil'd with every stain of earth, 
Knelt, offering up one heart, one cry, 
One sacrifice of agony. 

— Oh ! blest, though bitter be their source — 
Though dark the fountain of remorse, 
Blest are the tears which pour from thence, 
Th' atoning stream of penitence ! 
And let not pity check the tide 
By which the heart is purified ; 
Let not vain comfort turn its course, 
Or timid love repress its force ! 
Go ! bind the flood, whose waves expand, 
To bear luxuriance o'er the land ; 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 



205 



Forbid the life-restoring rains 
To fall on Afric's burning plains ; 
Close up the fount that gush'd to cheer 

The pilgrim o'er the waste who trode ; 
But check thou not one holy tear 

Which Penitence devotes to God ! 

Through scenes so lone the wild-deer ne'er 
Was roused by huntsman's bugle there — 
So rude, that scarce might human eye 
Sustain their dread sublimity — 
So awful, that the timid swain, 
Nurtured amidst their dark domain, 
Had peopled with unearthly forms 
Their mists, their forests, and their storms,— 
She, whose blue eye of laughing light 
Once made each festal scene more bright ; 
Whose voice in song of joy was sweetest, 
Whose step in dance of mirth was fleetest, 
By torrent wave and mountain brow, 
Is wandering as an outcast now, 
To share with Lindheim's fallen chief 
His shame, his terror, and his grief. 

Hast thou not mark'd the ruin's flower, 

That blooms in solitary grace, 
And, faithful to its mouldering towei*, 

Waves in the banner's place 1 
From those gray haunts renown hath pass'd, 
Time wins his heritage at last ; 
The day of glory hath gone by, 
With all its pomp and minstrelsy : 
Yet still the flower of golden hues 
There loves its fragrance to diffuse, 
To fallen and forsaken things 
With constancy unalter'd clings, 
And, smiling o'er the wreck of state, 
With beauty clothes the desolate. 
— E'en such was she, the fair-hair'd maid, 
In all her light of youth array'd, 
Forsaking every joy below 
To soothe a guilty parent's woe, 
And clinging thus, in beauty's prime, 
To the dark ruin made by crime. 
Oh ! ne'er did heaven's propitious eyes 
Smile on a purer sacrifice ; 
Ne'er did young love, at duty's shrine, 
More nobly brighter hopes resign ! 
O'er her own pangs she brooded not, 
Nor sank beneath her bitter lot ; 
No ! that pure spirit's lofty worth 
Still rose more buoyantly from earth, 
And drew from an eternal source 
Its gentle, yet triumphant force ; 



Roused by affliction's chastening might 

To energies more calmly bright, 

Like the wild harp of airy sigh, 

Woke by the storm to harmony ! 

He that in mountain-holds hath sought 

A refuge for unconquer'd thought, 

A charter'd home, where Freedom's child 

Might rear her altars in the wild, 

And fix her quenchless torch on high, 

A beacon for Eternity ; 

Or they, whose martyr spirits wage 

Proud war with Persecution's rage, 

And to the deserts bear the faith 

That bids them smile on chains and death ; 

Well may they draw, from all around, 

Of grandeur clothed in form and sound, 

From the deep power of earth and sky, 

Wild nature's might of majesty, 

Strong energies, immortal fires, 

High hopes, magnificent desires ! 

But dark, terrific, and austere, 
To him doth nature's mien appear, 
Who midst her wilds would seek repose 
From guilty pangs and vengeful foes ! 
For him the wind hath music dread, 
A dirge-like voice that mourns the dead ; 
The forest's whisper breathes a tone 
Appalling, as from worlds unknown ; 
The mystic gloom of wood and cave 
Is fill'd with shadows of the grave ; 
In noon's deep calm the sunbeams dart 
A blaze that seems to search his heart ; 
The pure, eternal stars of night 
Upbraid him with their silent light ; 
And the dread spirit, which pervades 
And hallows earth's most lonely shades, 
In every scene, in every hour, 
Surrounds him with chastising power — 
With nameless fear his soul to thrill, 
Heard, felt, acknowledged, present still ! 

'Twas the chilly close of an autumn day, 
And the leaves fell thick o'er the wanderers' way; 
The rustling pines, with a hollow sound, 
Foretold the tempest gathering round; 
And the skirts of the western clouds were spread 
With a tinge of wild and stormy red, 
That seem'd, through the twilight forest bowers 
Like the glare of a city's blazing towers. 
But they, who far from cities fled, 
And shrunk from the print of human tread, 
Had reach'd a desert scene unknown, 
So strangely wild, so deeply lone, 



206 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



That a nameless feeling, unconfess'd 

And undefined, their souls oppress'd. 

Rocks piled on rocks, around them hurl'd, 

Lay like the ruins of a world, 

Left by an earthquake's final throes 

In deep and desolate repose — 

Things of eternity whose forms 

Bore record of ten thousand storms ! 

While, rearing its colossal crest 

In sullen grandeur o'er the rest, 

One, like a pillar, vast and rude, 

Stood monarch of the solitude. 

Perchance by Roman conqueror's hand 

Th' enduring monument was plann'd ; 

Or Odin's sons, hi days gone by, 

Had shaped its rough immensity, 

To rear, midst mountain, rock, and wood, 

A temple meet for rites of blood. 

But they were gone, who might have told 

That secret of the times of old ; 

And there, in silent scorn it frown'd, 

O'er all its vast coevals round. 

Darkly those giant masses lower'd, 

Countless and motionless they tower'd ; 

No wild-flower o'er their summits hung, 

No fountain from their caverns sprung ; 

Yet ever on the wanderers' ear 

Murmur'd a sound of waters near, 

With music deep of lulling falls, 

And louder gush, at intervals. 

Unknown its source — nor spring nor stream 

Caught the red sunset's lingering gleam, 

But ceaseless, from its hidden caves, 

Arose that mystic voice of waves. 1 

Yet bosom'd midst that savage scene, 

One chosen spot of gentler mien 

Gave promise to the pilgrim's eye 

Of shelter from the tempest nigh. 

Glad sight ! the ivied cross it bore, 

The sculptured saint that crown'd its door : 

Less welcome now were monarch's dome, 

Than that low cell, some hermit's home. 



1 The original of the scene here described is presented by 
the mountain called the Feldberg, in the Bergstrasse : — " Des 
masses enormes de rochers, entassees 1'une sur l'autre depuis 
le sommet de la montagne jusqu'a son pied, viennent y 
presenter un aspect superbe qu' aucune description ne saurait 
rendre. Ce furent, dit-on, des geans, qui en se livrant un 
combat du haut des montagnes, lancerent les uns sur les 
autres ces Enormes masses de rochers. On arrive, avec beau- 
coup de peine, jusqu'au sommet du Feldberg, en suivant un 
sentier qui passe a cote de cette chaine de rochers. On 
entend continuellement un bruit sourd, quiparait venir d'un 
ruisseau au dessous des rochers ; mais on a beau descendre, 
en se glissant a travers les ouvertures qui s'y trouvent, on ne 



Thither the outcasts bent their way, 
By the last lingering gleam of day ; 
When from a cavern'd rock, which cast 
Deep shadows o'er them as they pass'd, 
A form, a warrior form of might, 
As from earth's bosom, sprang to sight. 
His port was lofty — yet the heart 
Shrank from him with recoiling start ; 
His mien was youthful — yet his face 
Had nought of youth's ingenuous grace ; 
Nor chivalrous nor tender thought 
Its traces on his brow had wrought 
Yet dwelt no fierceness in his eye, 
But calm and cold severity, 
A spirit haughtily austere, 
Stranger to pity as to fear. 
It seem'd as pride had thrown a veil 
O'er that dark brow and visage pale, 
Leaving the searcher nought to guess, 
All was so fix'd and passionless. 

He spoke — and they who heard the tone 
Felt, deeply felt, all hope was flown. 
" I've sought thee far in forest bowers, 
I've sought thee long in peopled towers, 
I've borne th' dagger of th' Unknown 
Through scenes explored by me alone; 
My search is closed — nor toils nor fears 
Repel the servant of the Seers ; 
We meet — 'tis vain to strive or fly : 
Albert of Lindheim, thou must die ! " 

Then with clasp'd hands the fair-hair'd maid 
Sank at his feet, and wildly pray'd :— 
" Stay, stay thee ! sheath that lifted steel ! 
Oh ! thou art human, and canst feel ! 
Hear me ! if e'er 'twas thine to prove 
The blessing of a parent's love ; 
By thine own father's hoary hair, 
By her who gave thee being, spare ! 
Did they not, o'er thy infant years, 
Keep watch, in sleepless hopes and fears ! 

d^couvrira jamais le ruisseau. La colonne, dite Riesensaule, 
se trouve un peu plus haut qu'a la moitie de la montagne ; 
c'est un bloc de granit taille, d'une longueur de 30 pieds et 
d'un diam£tre de 4 pieds. II y a plus de probability de croire 
que lesanciens Germains voulaient faire de ce bloc une colonne 
pour l'e'riger en l'honneur de leur dieu Odin, que depr^tendre, 
comme le fort plusieurs auteurs, que les Romains aient eu le 
dessein de la transporter dans leur capitale. On voit un 
peu plus haut un autre bloc d'une forme presque carree, qu* 
on appelle Riesenaltar, (autel du g^ant,) qui, a en juger par 
sa grosseur et sa forme, £tait destine" a servir de pedestal 
a la colonnade susdite." — Manuel pour les Voyageurs sur le 
Rhin. 



A TALE OP THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 207 


Young warrior ! thou wilt heed my prayers, 


But a feeling dread and undefined, 


As thou wouldst hope for grace to theirs !" 


A mystic presage of the mind, 




With strange and sudden impulse ran 


But cold th' Avenger's look remain'd, 


Chill through the heart of the dying man; 


His brow its rigid calm maintain'd : 


And his thoughts found voice, and his bosom 


"Maiden ! 'tis vain — my bosom ne'er 


breath, 


Was conscious of a parent's care ; 


And it seem'd as fear suspended death, 


The nurture of my infant years 


And nature from her terrors drew 


Froze in my soul the source of tears ; 


Fresh energy and vigour new. 


' Tis not for me to pause or melt, 




Or feel as happier hearts have felt. 


" Thou saidst thy lonely bosom ne'er 


Away ! the hour of fate goes by : 


Was conscious of a parent's care ; 


Thy prayers are fruitless — he must die ! " 


Thou saidst thy lot, in childhood's years, 




Froze in thy soul the source of tears : 


"Rise, Ella ! rise !" with steadfast brow 


The time will come, when thou, with me, 


The father spoke — unshrinking now, 


The judgment throne of God wilt see — 


As if from heaven a martyr's strength 


Oh ! by thy hopes of mercy, then, 


Had settled on his soul at length : 


By His blest love who died for men, 


"Kneel thou no more, my noble child, 


By each dread rite, and shrine, and vow, 


Thou by no taint of guilt defiled ; 


Avenger ! I adjure thee now ! 


Kneel not to man ! — for mortal prayer, 


To him who bleeds beneath thy steel, 


Oh ! when did mortal vengeance spare ? 


Thy lineage and thy name reveal. 


Since hope of earthly aid is flown, 


And haste thee ! for his closing ear 


Lift thy pure hands to heaven alone, 


Hath little more on earth to hear — 


And know, to calm thy suffering heart, 


Haste ! for the spirit, almost flown, 


My spirit is resign'd to part, 


Is lingering for thy words alone." 


Trusting in Him who reads and knows 




This guilty breast, with all its woes. 


Then first a shade, resembling fear, 


Rise ! I would bless thee once again, 


Pass'd o'er th' Avenger's mien austere ; 


Be still, be firm — for all is vain ! " 


A nameless awe his features cross'd, 




Soon in then haughty coldness lost. 


And she was still. She heard him not — 




Her prayers were hush'd, her pangs forgot ; 


" What wouldst thou 1 Ask the rock and wild, 


All thought, all memory pass'd away, 


And bid them tell thee of their child ! 


Silent and motionless she lay, 


Ask the rude winds, and angry skies, 


In a brief death, a blest suspense 


Whose tempests were his lullabies ! 


Alike of agony and sense. - 


His chambers were the cave and wood, 


She saw not when the dagger gleam'd 


His fosterers men of wrath and blood ; 


In the last red light from the west that 


Outcasts alike of earth and heaven, 


stream'd ; 


By wrongs to desperation driven ! 


She mark'd not when the life-blood's flow 


Who, in their pupil, now could trace 


Came rushing to the mortal blow ; 


The features of a nobler race 1 


While, unresisting, sank her sire, 


Yet such was mine ! — if one who cast 


Yet gather'd firmness to expire, 


A look of anguish o'er the past, 


Mingling a warrior's courage high 


Bore faithful record on the day 


With a penitent's humility. 


When penitent in death he lay. 


And o'er him there th' Avenger stood, 


But still deep shades my prospects veil ; 


And watch'd the victim's ebbing blood, 


He died— and told but half the tale. 


Still calm, as if his faithful hand 


With him it sleeps — I only know 


Had but obey'd some just command, 


Enough for stern and silent woe, 


Some power whose stern, yet righteous will 


For vain ambition's deep regret, 


He deem'd it virtue to fulfil, 


For hopes deceived, deceiving yet, 


And triumph'd, when the palm was won, 


For dreams of pride, that vainly tell 


For duty's task austerely done. 


How high a lot had suited well 



208 TALES AND HISTOKIC SCENES. 


The heir of some illustrious line, 


With the flash of arms, and the voice of song, 


Heroes and chieftains of the Ehine ! " 


Gliding triumphantly along ; 




For warrior-forms were glittering there, 


Then swift through Albert's bosom pass'd 


Whose plumes waved light in the whispering air ; 


One pang, the keenest and the last, 


And as the tones of oar and wave 


Ere with his spirit fled the fears, 


Their measured cadence mingling gave, 


The sorrows, and the pangs of years ; 


'Twas thus th' exulting chorus rose, 


And, while his gray hairs swept the dust, 


While many an echo swell'd the close : — 


Faltering he murmur' d, " Heaven is just ! 




For thee that deed of guilt was done, 


" From the fields where dead and dying 


By thee avenged, my son ! my son ! " 


On their battle-bier are lying, 


— The day was closed — the moonbeam shed 


Where the blood unstanch'd is gushing, 


Light on the living and the dead, 


Where the steed uncheck'd is rushing, 


And as through rolling clouds it broke, 


Trampling o'er the noble-hearted, 


Young Ella from her trance awoke — 


Ere the spirit yet be parted ; 


Awoke to bear, to feel, to know 


Where each breath of heaven is swaying 


E'en more than all an orphan's woe. 


Knightly plumes and banners playing. 


Oh ! ne'er did moonbeam's light serene 


And the clarion's music swelling 


With beauty clothe a sadder scene ! 


Calls the vulture from his dwelling ; 


There, cold in death, the father slept — 


He comes, with trophies worthy of his line, 


There, pale in woe, the daughter wept ! 


The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine ! 


Yes ! she might weep — but one stood nigh, 


To his own fair woods, enclosing 


With horror in his tearless eye, 


Vales in sunny peace reposing, 


That eye which ne'er again shall close 


Where his native stream is laving 


In the deep quiet of repose ; 


Banks, with golden harvests waving, 


No more on earth beholding aught 


And the summer light is sleeping 


Save one dread vision, stamp'd on thought. 


On the grape, through tendrils peeping ; 


But, lost in grief, the Orphan Maid 


To the halls where harps are ringing, 


His deeper woe had scarce survey' d, 


Bards the praise of warriors singing, 


Till his wild voice reveal'd a tale 


Graceful footsteps bounding fleetly, 


Which seem'd to bid the heavens turn pale ! 


Joyous voices mingling sweetly ; 


He call'd her, " Sister ! " and the word 


Where the cheek of mirth is glowing, 


In anguish breathed, in terror heard, 


And the wine-cup brightly flowing, 


Eeveal'd enough : all else were weak — 


He comes, with trophies worthy of his line, 


That sound a thousand pangs could speak. 


The son of heroes, Ulric of the Rhine ! " 


He knelt beside that breathless clay, 




Which, fix'd in utter stillness, lay — 


He came — he sought his Ella's bowers, 


Knelt till his soul imbibed each trace, 


He traversed Lindheim's lonely towers ; 


Each line of that unconscious face ; 


But voice and footstep thence had fled, 


Knelt, till his eye could bear no more 


As from the dwellings of the dead, 


Those marble features to explore ; 


And the sounds of human joy and woe 


Then, starting, turning, as to shun 


Gave place to the moan of the wave below. 


The image thus by Memory won, 


The banner still the rampart crown'd, 


A wild farewell to her he bade, 


But the tall rank grass waved thick around ; 


Who by the dead in silence pray'd; 


Still hung the arms of a race gone by 


And, frenzied by his bitter doom, 


In the blazon'd halls of their ancestry, 


Fled thence — to find all earth a tomb ! 


But they caught no more, at fall of night, 




The wavering flash of the torch's light, 


Days pass'd away — and Rhine's fair shore 


And they sent their echoes forth no more 


In the light of summer smiled once more ; 


To the Minnesinger's 1 tuneful lore. 


The vines were purpling on the hill, 


For the hands that touch'd the harp were gone, 


And the corn-fields waved in the sunshine still. 


And the hearts were cold that loved its tone ; 


There came a bark up the noble stream, 


1 Minnesingers, (bards of love,) the appellation of the Ger- 


With pennons that shed a golden gleam, 


man minstrels in the Middle Ages. 



A TALE OF THE SECRET TRIBUNAL. 209 


And the soul of the chord lay mute and still, 


Ere yet a darker mantle hide 


Save when the wild wind bade it thrill, 


The charms to heaven thus sanctified : 


And woke from its depths a dream-like moan, 


Stay thee ! and catch their parting gleam, 


For life, and power, and beauty gone. 


That ne'er shall fade from memory's dream. 




A moment ! oh ! to Ulric's soul, 


The warrior turn'd from that silent scene, 


Poised between hope and fear's control, 


Where a voice of woe had welcome been ; 


What slow, unmeasured hours went by, 


And his heart was heavy with boding thought, 


Ere yet suspense grew certainty. 


As the forest-paths alone he sought. 


It came at length. Once more that face 


He reach'd a convent's fane, that stood 


Reveal'd to man its mournful grace ; 


Deep bosom'd in luxuriant wood ; 


A sunbeam on its features fell, 


Still, solemn, fair — it seem'd a spot 


As if to bear the world's farewell ; 


Where earthly care might be all forgot, 


And doubt was o'er. His heart grew chill : 


And sounds and dreams of heaven alone 


'Twas she — though changed — 'twas Ella still ! 


To musing spirit might be known. 


Though now her once-rejoicing mien 




Was deeply, mournfully serene ; 


And sweet e'en then were the sounds that 


Though clouds her eye's blue lustre shaded, 


rose 


And the young cheek beneath had faded, 


On the holy and profound repose. 


Well, well he knew the form, which cast 


Oh ! they came o'er the warrior's breast 


Light on his soul through all the past ! 


Like a glorious anthem of the blest ; 


'Twas with him on the battle-plain, 


And fear and sorrow died away 


'Twas with him on the stormy main : 


Before the full majestic lay. 


'Twas in his visions, when the shield 


He enter'd the secluded fane, 


Pillow'd his head on tented field ; 


Which sent forth that inspiring strain ; 


'Twas a bright beam that led him on 


He gazed — the hallow'd pile's array 


Where'er a triumph might be won — 


Was that of some high festal day ; 


In danger as in glory nigh, 


Wreaths of all hues its pillars bound, 


An angel-guide to victory ! 


Flowers of all scents were strew'd around ; 




The rose exhaled its fragrant sigh, 


She caught his pale bewilder'd gaze 


Blest on the altar to smile and die ; 


Of grief half lost in fix'd amaze. 


And a fragrant cloud from the censer's breath 


Was it some vain illusion, wrought 


Half hid the sacred pomp beneath ; 


By frenzy of impassion'd thought 1 


And still the peal of choral song 


Some phantom, such as Grief hath power 


Swell'd the resounding aisles along ; 


To summon in her wandering hour 1 


Wakening, in its triumphant flow, 


No ! it was he ! the lost, the mourn'd — 


Deep echoes from the graves below. 


Too deeply loved, too late return'd ! 




— A fever'd blush, a sudden start, 


Why, from its woodland birthplace torn, 


Spoke the last weakness of her heart ; 


Doth summer's rose that scene adorn ? 


'Twas vanquish'd soon — the hectic red 


Why breathes the incense to the sky ] 


A moment flush'd her cheek, and fled. 


Why swells th' exulting harmony 1 


Once more serene — her steadfast eye 


— And see'st thou not yon form, so light 


Look'd up as to Eternity ; 


It seems half floating on the sight, 


Then gazed on Ulric with an air, 


As if the whisper of a gale, 


That said — the home of Love is there / 


That did but wave its snowy veil, 




Might bear it from the earth afar, 


Yes ! there alone it smiled for him, 


A lovely but receding star 1 


Whose eye before that look grew dim. 


Know that devotion's shrine e'en now 


Not long 'twas his e'en thus to view 


Receives that youthful vestal's vow — 


The beauty of its calm adieu ; 


For this, high hymns, sweet odours rise, 


Soon o'er those features, brightly pale, 


A jubilee of sacrifice ! 


Was cast th' impenetrable veil ; 


Mark yet a moment ! from her brow 


And, if one human sigh were given 


Yon priest shall lift the veil of snow, 


By the pure bosom vow'd to heaven, 



210 . TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 


'Twas lost, as many a murmur'd sound 


Where they and man may brave alone 


Of grief, " not loud, but deep," is drown'd, 


The terrors of the burning zone. 


In hymns of joy, which proudly rise 


— Faint not, pilgrims ! though on high, 


To tell the calm untroubled skies 


As a volcano, flame the sky ; 


That earth hath banish'd care and woe, 


Shrink not, though as a furnace glow 


And man holds festivals below ! 


The dark-red seas of sand below ; 




Though not a shadow, save your own, 





Across the dread expanse is thrown. 




Mark ! where your feverish lips to lave, 


THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERTS. 


Wide-spreads the fresh transparent wave ! 




Urge your tired camels on, and take 


Call it not loneliness to dwell 


Your rest beside yon glistening lake ; 


In woodland shade or hermit dell, 


Thence, haply, cooler gales may spring, 


Or the deep forest to explore, 


And fan your brows with lighter wing. 


Or wander Alpine regions o'er ; 


Lo ! nearer now, its glassy tide, 


For nature there all joyous reigns, 


Reflects the date-tree on its side — 


And fills with life her wild domains : — 


Speed on ! pure draughts and genial air, 


A bird's light wing may break the air, 


And verdant shade, await you there. 


A wave, a leaf, may murmur there ; 


Oh, glimpse of heaven ! to him unknown 


A bee the mountain flowers may seek, 


That hath not trod the burning zone ! 


A chamois bound from peak to peak ; 


Forward they press — they gaze dismay 'd — 


An eagle, rushing to the sky, 


The waters of the desert fade ! 


Wake the deep echoes with his cry ; 


Melting to vapours that elude 


And still some sound, thy heart to cheer, 


The eye, the lip, they vainly woo'd. 1 


Some voice though not of man is near. 




But he, whose weary step hath traced 


What meteor comes ? A purple haze 


Mysterious Afric's awful waste — 


Hath half obscured the noontide rays: 2 


Whose eye Arabia's wilds hath view'd, 


Onward it moves in swift career, 


Can tell thee what is solitude ! 


A blush upon the atmosphere. 


It is to traverse lifeless plains, 


Haste, haste ! avert th' impending doom, 


Where everlasting stillness reigns, 


Fall prostrate ! 'tis the dread Simoom ! 


And billowy sands and dazzling sky 


Bow down your faces — till the blast 


Seem boundless as infinity ! 


On its red wing of flame hath pass'd, 


It is to sink, with speechless dread, 


Far bearing o'er the sandy wave 


In scenes unmeet for mortal tread, 


The viewless Angel of the Grave. 


Sever'd from earthly being's trace, 




Alone amidst eternal space ! 


It came — 'tis vanish' d — but hath left 




The wanderers e'en of hope bereft ; 


'Tis noon — and fearfully profound, 


The ardent heart, the vigorous frame, 


Silence is on the desert round ; 


Pride, courage, strength, its power could 


Alone she reigns, above, beneath, 


tame. 


With all the attributes of death ! 


Faint with despondence, worn with toil, 


No bird the blazing heaven may dare, 


They sink upon the burning soil, 


No insect bide the scorching air ; 


Resign' d, amidst those realms of gloom, 


The ostrich, though of sunborn race, 


To find their deathbed and their tomb. 3 


Seeks a more shelter'd dwelling-place ; 




The lion slumbers in his lair, 


But onward still ! — yon distant spot 


The serpent shuns the noontide glare. 


Of verdure can deceive you not; 


But slowly wind the patient train 


Yon palms, which tremulously seem'd 


Of camels o'er the blasted plain, 


Reflected as the waters gleam'd, 


1 The mirage, or vapour assuming the appearance of 


3 The extreme languor and despondence produced by the 


water. 


Simoom, even when its effects are not fatal, have been de- 


2 See the description of the Simoom in Bruce's Travels. 


scribed by many travellers. 



THE CARAVAN IN THE DESEETS. 



21i 



Along th' horizon's verge displayed, 
Still rear their slender colonnade — 
A landmark, guiding o'er the plain 
The Caravan's exhausted train. 
Fair is that little Isle of Bliss 
The desert's emerald oasis ! 
A rainbow on the torrent's wave, 
A gem embosom'd in the grave, 
A sunbeam on a stormy day 
Its beauty's image might convey ! 
Beauty, in horror's lap that sleeps, 
While silence round her vigil keeps. 

Eest, weary pilgrims ! calmly laid 
To slumber in th' acacia shade : 
Rest, where the shrubs your camels bruise 
Their aromatic breath diffuse ; 
Where softer light the sunbeams pour 
Through the tall palm and sycamore ; 
And the rich date luxuriant spreads 
Its pendant clusters o'er your heads. 
Nature once more, to seal your eyes, 
Murmurs her sweetest lullabies ; 
Again each heart the music hails 
Of rustling leaves and sighing gales : 
And oh ! to Afric's child how dear 
The voice of fountains gushing near ! 
Sweet be your slumbers ! and your dreams 
Of waving groves and rippling streams ! 
Far be the serpent's venom'd coil 
From the brief respite won by toil ; 
Far be the awful shades of those 
Who deep beneath the sands repose — 
The hosts, to whom the desert's breath 
Bore swift and stern the call of death. 
Sleep ! nor may scorching blast invade 
The freshness of the acacia shade, 
But gales of heaven your spirits bless, 
With life's best balm — Forgetfulness ! 
Till night from many an urn diffuse 
The treasures of her world of dews. 

The day hath closed — the moon on high 
Walks in her cloudless majesty. 
A thousand stars to Afric's heaven 
Serene magnificence have given — 
Pure beacons of the sky, whose flame 
Shines forth eternally the same. 
Blest be their beams, whose holy light 
Shall guide the camel's footsteps right, 
And lead, as with a track divine, 
The pilgrim to his prophet's shrine ! 
— Rise ! bid your Isle of Palms adieu ! 
Again your lonely march pursue, 



While airs of night are freshly blowing, 
And heavens with softer beauty glowing. 

'Tis silence all : the solemn scene 
Wears, at each step, a ruder mien ; 
For giant-rocks, at distance piled, 
Cast their deep shadows o'er the wild. 
Darkly they rise — what eye hath view'd 
The caverns of their solitude 1 
Away ! within those awful cells 
The savage lord of Afric dwells ! 
Heard ye his voice 1 — the lion's roar 
Swells as when billows break on shore. 
Well may the camel shake with fear, 
And the steed pant — his foe is near. 
Haste ! light the torch, bid watchfires throw 
Far o'er the waste, a ruddy glow; 
Keep vigil — guard the bright array 
Of flames that scare him from his prey ; 
Within their magic circle press, 
wanderers of the wilderness ! 
Heap high the pile, and by its blaze, 
Tell the wild tales of elder days, — 
Arabia's wondrous lore, that dwells 
On warrior deeds and wizard spells ; 
Enchanted domes, mid scenes like these, 
Rising to vanish with the breeze ; 
Gardens, whose fruits are gems, that shed 
Their light where mortal may not tread ; 
And spirits, o'er whose pearly halls 
Th' eternal billow heaves and falls. 
— With charms like these, of mystic power, 
Watchers ! beguile the midnight hour. 

Slowly that hour hath roll'd away, 
And star by star withdraws its ray. 
Dark children of the sun ! again 
Your own rich orient hails his reign. 
He comes, but veil'd — with sanguine glare 
Tinging the mists that load the air ; 
Sounds of dismay, and signs of flame, 
Th' approaching hurricane proclaim. 
'Tis death's red banner streams on high — 
Fly to the rocks for shelter ! — fly ! 
Lo ! dark'ning o'er the fiery skies, 
The pillars of the desert rise ! 
On, in terrific grandeur wheeling, 
A giant-host, the heavens concealing, 
They move, like mighty genii-forms, 
Towering immense midst clouds and storms. 
Who shall escape ! — with awful force 
The whirlwind bears them on their course ; 
They join, they rush resistless on — ■ 
The landmarks of the plain are gone ; 



212 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



The steps, the forms, from earth effaced, 
Of those who trod the burning waste ! 
All whelm'd, all hush'd ! — none left to bear 
Sad record how they perish'd there ! 
No stone their tale of death shall tell — 
The desert guards its mysteries well ; 
And o'er th' unfathom'd sandy deep, 
Where low their nameless relics sleep, 
Oft shall the future pilgrim tread, 
Nor know his steps are on the dead. 



MARIUS AMONGST THE RUINS OF 
CARTHAGE. 

[" Marius, during the time of his exile, seeking refuge in 
Africa, had landed at Carthage, when an officer, sent by the 
Roman governor of Africa, came and thus addressed him : — 
" Marius, I come from the Praetor Sextilius, to tell you that 
he forbids you to set foot in Africa. If you obey not, he will 
support the Senate's decree, and treat you as a public enemy." 
Marius, upon hearing this, was struck dumb with grief and 
indignation. He uttered not a word for some time, but re- 
garded the officer with a menacing aspect. At length the 
officer inquired what answer he should carry to the governor. 
" Go and tell him," said the unfortunate man, with a sigh, 
" that thou hast seen the exiled Marius sitting on the ruins 
of Carthage." — Plutarch.] 

'Twas noon, and Afric's dazzling sun on high 
With fierce resplendence fill'd th' unclouded sky; 
No zephyr waved the palm's majestic head, 
And smooth alike the seas and deserts spread ; 
While desolate, beneath a blaze of light, 
Silent and lonely, as at dead of night, 
The wreck of Carthage lay. Her prostrate fanes 
Had strew'd their precious marble o'er the plains ; 
Dark weeds and grass the column had o'ergrown, 
The lizard bask'd upon the altar stone ; 
Whelm'd by the ruins of their own abodes, 
Had sunk the forms of heroes and of gods ; 
While near — dread offspring of the burning day ! 
Coil'd midst forsaken halls the serpent lay. 

There came an exile, long by fate pursued, 
To shelter in that awful solitude. 
Well did that wanderer's high yet faded mien 
Suit the sad grandeur of the desert scene : — 
Shadow'd, not veil'd, by locks of wintry snow, 
Pride sat, still mighty, on his furrow'd brow ; 
Time had not quench'd the terrors of his eye, 
Nor tamed his glance of fierce ascendency ; 
While the deep meaning of his features told 
Ages of thought had o'er his spirit roll'd, 
Nordimm'd the fire that might not be controll'd; 
And still did power invest his stately form, 
Shatter'd, but yet unconquer'd, by the storm. 



— But slow his step — and where, not yet o'er- 

thrown, 
Still tower'd a pillar midst the waste alone, 
Faint with long toil, his weary limbs he laid, 
To slumber in its solitary shade. 
He slept — and darkly, on his brief repose, 
Th' indignant genius of the scene arose. 
Clouds robed his dim unearthly form, and spread 
Mysterious gloom around his crownless head, 
Crownless, but regal still. With stern disdain, 
The kingly shadow seem'd to lift his chain, 
Gazed on the palm, his ancient sceptre torn, 
And his eye kindled with immortal scorn ! 

"Andsleep'st thou, Roman?" cried his voice 

austere ; 
" Shall son of Latium find a refuge here ? 
Awake ! arise ! to speed the hour of Fate, 
When Rome shall fall, as Carthage desolate ! 
Go ! with her children's flower, the free, the 

brave, 
People the silent chambers of the grave : 
So shall the course of ages yet to be, 
More swiftly waft the day, avenging me ! 

" Yes, from the awful gulf of years to come, 
I hear a voice that prophesies her doom ; 
I see the trophies of her pride decay, 
And her long line of triumphs pass away, 
Lost in the depths of time — while sinks the star 
That led her march of heroes from afar ! 
Lo ! from the frozen forests of the North, 
The sons of slaughter pour in myriads forth ! 
Who shall awake the mighty ? — will thy woe, 
City of thrones ! disturb the realms below 1 
Call on the dead to hear thee ! let thy cries 
Summon their shadowy legions to arise, 
Array the ghosts of conquerors on thy walls ! 
— Barbarians revel in their ancient halls, 
And their lost children bend the subject knee, 
Midst the proud tombs and trophies of the free. 
Bird of the sun ! dread eagle ! born on high, 
A creature of the empyreal — thou, whose eye 
Was lightning to the earth — whose pinion waved 
In haughty triumph o'er a world enslaved ; 
Sink from thy heavens ! for glory's noon is o'er, 
And rushing storms shall bear thee on no more ! 
Closed is thy regal course — thy crest is torn, 
And thy plume banish'd from the realms of morn. 
The shaft hath reach'd thee ! — rest with chiefs 

and kings, 
Who conquer'd in the shadow of thy wings ; 
Sleep ! while thy foes exult around their prey, 
And share thy glorious heritage of day ! 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 



213 



But darker years shall mingle with the past, 
And deeper vengeance shall be mine at last. 
O'er the seven hills I see destruction spread, 
And Empire's widow veils with dust her head. 
Her gods forsake each desolated shrine, 
Her temples moulder to the earth, like mine : 
Midst fallen palaces she sits alone, 
Calling heroic shades from ages gone, 
Or bids the nations midst her deserts wait 
To learn the fearful oracles of Fate ! 

" Still sleep'st thou, Roman 1 Son of Victory, rise ! 
Wake to obey th' avenging Destinies ! 
Shed by thy mandate, soon thy country's blood 
Shall swell and darken Tiber's yellow flood ! 
My children's manes call — awake ! prepare 
The feast they claim ! — exult in Rome's despair ! 
Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries, 
Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies ; 
Let carnage revel e'en her shrines among, 
Spare not the valiant, pity not the young ! 
Haste ! o'er her hills the sword's libation shed, 
And wreak the curse of Carthage on her head ! " 

The vision flies — a mortal step is near, 
Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer's ear ; 
He starts, he wakes to woe — before him stands 
Th' unwelcome messenger of harsh commands, 
Whose faltering accents tell the exiled chief 
To seek on other shores a home for grief. 
— Silent the wanderer sat — but on his cheek 
The burning glow far more than words might speak ; 
And, from the kindling of his eye, there broke 
Language where all th' indignant soul awoke, 
Till his deep thought found voice : then, calmly 

stern, 
And sovereign in despair, he cried, " Return ! 
Tell him who sent thee hither, thou hast seen 
Marius, the exile, rest where Carthage once hath 
been ! " 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 

A FRAGMENT. 

The moonbeam, quivering o'er the wave, 
Sleeps in pale gold on wood and hill, 

The wild wind slumbers in its cave, 
And heaven is cloudless — earth is still ! 

The pile that crowns yon savage height 

With battlements of Gothic might, 
Rises in softer pomp array'd, 
Its massy towers half lost in shade, 

Half touch'd with mellowing light ! 



The rays of night, the tints of time, 

Soft-mingling on its dark-gray stone, 
O'er its rude strength and mien sublime, 

A placid smile have thrown. 
And far beyond, where wild and high, 
Bounding the pale blue summer sky, 
A mountain vista meets the eye, 
Its dark, luxuriant woods assume 
A pencil'd shade, a softer gloom : 
Its jutting cliffs have caught the light, 
Its torrents glitter through the night, 
While every cave and deep recess 
Frowns in more shadowy awfulness. 
Scarce moving on the glassy deep 
Yon gallant vessel seems to sleep ; 

But darting from its side, 
How swiftly does its boat design 
A slender, silvery, waving line 

Of radiance o'er the tide ! 
No sound is on the summer seas, 

But the low dashing of the oar, 
And faintly sighs the midnight breeze 

Through woods that fringe the rocky shore. 
That boat has reach'd the silent bay — 
The dashing oar has ceased to play ; 
The breeze has murmur'd and has died 
In forest shades, on ocean's tide. 
No step, no tone, no breath of sound 
Disturbs the loneliness profound ; 
And midnight spreads o'er earth and main 

A calm so holy and so deep, 
That voice of mortal were profane 

To break on nature's sleep ! 
It is the hour for thought to soar 

High o'er the cloud of earthly woes ; 
For rapt devotion to adore — 

For passion to repose ; 
And virtue to forget her tears, 
In visions of sublimer spheres ! 
For oh ! those transient gleams of heaven, 
To calmer, purer spirits given, 
Children of hallow'd peace, are known 
In solitude and shade alone ! 
Like flowers that shun the blaze of noon, 
To blow beneath the midnight moon, 
The garish world they will not bless, 
But only live in loneliness ! 

Hark ! did some note of plaintive swell 

Melt on the stillness of the air ? 
Or was it fancy's powerful spell 

That woke such sweetness there 1 
For wild and distant it arose, 
Like sounds that bless the bard's repose, 



214 TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 


When in lone wood, or mossy cave, 


Like the swift glancing lights that rise 


He dreams beside some fountain wave, 


Midst the wild cloud of stormy skies, 


And fairy worlds delight the eyes 


And traverse ocean o'er ; 


Wearied with life's realities. 


So in that full, impassion'd eye 




The changeful meanings rise and die, 


Was it illusion 1 Yet again 


Just seen — and then no more ! 


Rises and falls th enchanted strain, 


But oh ! too short that pause. Again 


Mellow, and sweet, and faint- 


Thrills to her heart that witching strain : — 


As if some spirit's touch had given 


" Awake ! the midnight moon is bright : 


The soul of sound to harp of heaven 


Awake ! the moments wing their flight ; 


To soothe a dying saint ! 


Haste ! or they speed in vain ! " 


Is it the mermaid's distant shell, 


call of Love ! thy potent spell 


Warbling beneath the moonlit wave 1 


O'er that weak heart prevails too well ; 


— Such witching tones might lure full well 


The "still small voice" is heard no more 


The seaman to his grave ! 


That pleaded duty's cause before, 


Sure from no mortal touch ye rise, 


And fear is hush'd, and doubt is gone, 


Wild, soft, aerial melodies ! 


And pride forgot, and reason flown ! 


— Is it the song of woodland-fay 


Her cheek, whose colour came and fled, 


From sparry grot, or haunted bower 1 


Resumes its warmest, brightest red, 


Hark ! floating on, the magic lay 


Her step its quick elastic tread, 


Draws near yon ivied tower ! 


Her eye its beaming smile ! 


Now nearer still, the listening ear 


Through lonely court and silent hall, 


May catch sweet harp-notes, faint yet clear ; 


Flits her light shadow o'er the wall ; 


And accents low, as if in fear, 


And still that low, harmonious call 


Thus murmur, half suppress'd : — 


Melts on her ear the while ! 


" Awake ! the moon is bright on high, 


Though love's quick ear alone could tell 


The sea is calm, the bark is nigh, 


The words its accents faintly swell : — 


The world is hush'd to rest ! " 


" Awake ! while yet the lingering night 


Then sinks the voice — the strain is o'er, 


And stars and seas befriend our flight : 


Its last low cadence dies along the shore. 


Oh ! haste, while all is well ! " 




The halls, the courts, the gates, are past, 


Fair Bertha hears th' expected song, 


She gains the moonlit beach at last. 


Swift from her tower she glides along ; 


Who waits to guide her trembling feet 1 


No echo to her tread awakes, 


Who flies the fugitive to greet 1 


Her fairy step no slumber breaks ; 


He, to her youthful heart endear'd 


And, in that hour of silence deep, 


By all it e'er had hoped and fear'd, 


While all around the dews of sleep 


Twined with each wish, with every thought 


O'erpower each sense, each eyelid steep, 


Each day-dream fancy e'er had wrought, 


Quick throbs her heart with hope and fear, 


Whose tints portray with flattering skill 


Her dark eye glistens with a tear. 


What brighter worlds alone fulfil ! 


Half-wavering now, the varying cheek 


— Alas ! that aught so fair should fly 


And sudden pause her doubts bespeak, 


Thy blighting wand, Reality ! 


The lip now flush'd, now pale as death, 




The trembling frame, the fluttering breath ! 


A chieftain's mien her Osbert bore, 


Oh ! in that moment, o'er her soul 


A pilgrim's lowly robes he wore — 


What struggling passions claim control ! 


Disguise that vainly strove to hide 


Fear, duty, love, in conflict high, 


Bearing and glance of martial pride : 


By turns have won th ascendency ; 


For he in many a battle-scene, 


And as, all tremulously bright, 


On many a rampart breach had been ; 


Streams o'er her face the beam of night, 


Had sternly smiled at danger nigh, 


What thousand mix'd emotions play 


Had seen the valiant bleed and die, 


O'er that fair face, and melt away. 


And proudly rear'd on hostile tower, 


Like forms whose quick succession gleams 


Midst falchion clash and arrowy shower, 


O'er fancy's rainbow-tinted dreams ; 


Britannia's banner high ! 






A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 215 


And though some ancient feud had taught 


Soft as the melancholy smile 


His Bertha's sire to loathe his name, 


Of sunset on some ruin'd pile ! 


More noble warrior never fought 


— It is the bard, whose song had power 


For glory's prize or England's fame. 


To lure the maiden from her tower — 


And well his dark, commanding eye, 


The bard, whose wild inspiring lays, 


And form and step of stately grace, 


E'en in gay childhood's earliest days, 


Accorded with achievements high, 


First woke, in Osbert's kindling breast, 


Soul of emprise and chivalry, 


The flame that will not be represt, 


Bright name, and generous race ! 


The pulse that throbs for praise ! 


His cheek, embrown'd by many a sun, 


Those lays had banish'd from his eye 


Tells a proud tale of glory won, 


The bright soft tears of infancy, 


Of vigil, march, and combat rude, 


Had soothed the boy to calm repose, 


Valour, and toil, and fortitude ! 


Had hush'd his bosom's earliest woes ; 


E'en while youth's earliest blushes threw 


And when the light of thought awoke, 


Warm o'er that cheek their vivid hue, 


When first young reason's day-spring broke, 


His gallant soul, his stripling form, 


More powerful still, they bade arise 


Had braved the battle's rudest storm ; 


His spirit's burning energies ! 


When England's conquering archers stood, 


Then the bright dream of glory warm'd, 


And dyed thy plain, Poitiers ! with blood, 


Then the loud pealing war-song charm'd, 


When shiver'd axe, and cloven shield, 


The legends of each martial line, 


And shatter'd helmet, strew'd the field, 


The battle-tales of Palestine : 


And France around her king in vain 


And oft, since then, his deeds had proved 


Had marshall'd valour's noblest train — 


Themes of the lofty lays he loved ! 


In that dread strife his lightning eye 


. Now, at triumphant love's command, 


Had flash'd with transport keen and high, 


Since Osbert leaves his native land, 


And midst the battle's wildest tide, 


Forsaking glory's high career 


Throbb'd his young heart with hope and pride. 


For her than glory far more dear ; 




Since hope's gay dream and meteor ray 


Alike that fearless heart could brave 


To distant regions point his way, 


Death on the war-field or the wave ; 


That there Affection's hands may dress 


Alike in tournament or fight, 


A fairy bower for happiness ; 


That ardent spirit found delight ! 


That fond devoted bard, though now 


Yet oft, midst hostile scenes afar, 


Time's wintery garland wreathes his brow, 


Bright o'er his soul a vision came, 


Though quench'd the sunbeam of his eye, 


Rising like some benignant star, 


And fled his spirit's buoyancy, 


On stormy seas or plains of war, 


And strength and enterprise are past, 


To soothe, with hopes more dear than fame, 


Still follows constant to the last ! 


The heart that throbb'd to Bertha's name ! 


Though his sole wish was but to die 


And midst the wildest rage of fight, 


Midst the calm scenes of days gone by, 


And in the deepest calm of night, 


And all that hallows and endears 


To her his thoughts would wing their flight 


The memory of departed years — 


With fond devotion warm ; 


Sorrow, and joy, and time, have twined 


Oft would those glowing thoughts portray 


To those loved scenes his pensive mind ; 


Some home, from tumults far away, 


Ah ! what can tear the links apart 


Graced with that angel form ! 


That bind his chieftain to his heart 1 


And now his spirit fondly deems 


What smile but his with joy can light 


Fulfill'd its loveliest, dearest dreams ! 


The eye obscured by age's night ?- 




Last of a loved and honour'd line, 


Who, with pale cheek, and locks of snow, 


Last tie to earth in life's decline, 


In minstrel garb attends the chief] 


Till death its lingering spark shall dim, 


The moonbeam on his thoughtful brow 


That faithful eye must gaze on him ! 


Reveals a shade of grief. 




Sorrow and time have touch'd his face 


Silent and swift, with footstep light, 


With mournful yet majestic grace, 


Haste on those fugitives of night. 



216 TALES AND HISTOKIC SCENES. 


They reach the boat — the rapid oar 


No path so wild but thou hast known, 


Soon wafts them from the wooded shore : 


And traced its rugged course alone ! 


The bark is gain'd ! A gallant few, 


The earliest wreath that bound thy hair 


Vassals of Osbert, form its crew ; 


Was twined of glowing heath-flowers there. 


The pennant, in the moonlight beam, 


There in the day-spring of thy years, 


With soft suffusion glows ; 


Undimm'd by passions or by tears, 


From the white sail a silvery gleam 


Oft, while thy bright, enraptured eye 


Falls on the wave's repose ; 


Wander'd o'er ocean, earth, or sky, 


Long shadows undulating play, 


While the wild breeze that round thee blew, 


From mast and streamer, o'er the bay ; 


Tinged thy warm cheek with richer hue. 


But still so hush'd the summer air, 


Pure as the skies that o'er thy head 


They tremble, midst that scene so fair, 


Their clear and cloudless azure spread, 


Lest morn's first beam behold them there. 


Pure as that gale whose light wing drew 


— Wake, viewless wanderer ! breeze of night ! 


Its freshness from the mountain dew, 


From river wave, or mountain height, 


Glow'd thy young heart with feelings high, 


Or dew-bright couch of moss and flowers, 


A heaven of hallow'd ecstasy ! 


By haunted spring in forest bowers ; 


Such days were thine ! ere love had drawn 


Or dost thou lurk in pearly cell, 


A cloud o'er that celestial dawn ! 


In amber grot, where mermaids dwell, 


As the clear dews in morning's beam 


And cavern'd gems their lustre throw 


With soft reflected colouring stream, 


O'er the red sea-flowers' vivid glow ? 


Catch every tint of eastern gem 


Where treasures, not for mortal gaze, 


To form the rose's diadem, 


In solitary splendour blaze, 


But vanish when the noontide hour 


And sounds, ne'er heard by mortal ear, 


Glows fiercely on the shrinking flower — 


Swell through the deep's unfathom'd sphere ] 


Thus in thy soul each calm delight, 


What grove of that mysterious world 


Like morn's first dew-drops, pure and bright, 


Holds thy light wing in slumber fuii'd 1 


Fled swift from passion's blighting fire, 


Awake ! o'er glittering seas to rove : 


Or linger'd only to expire ! 


Awake ! to guide the bark of love ! 


Spring on thy native hills again 


Swift fly the midnight hours, and soon 


Shall bid neglected wild-flowers rise, 


Shall fade the bright propitious moon ; 


And call forth, in each grassy glen, 


Soon shall the waning stars grow pale, 


Her brightest emerald dyes ! 


E'en now — but lo ! the rustling sail 


There shall the lonely mountain rose, 


Swells to the new-sprung ocean gale ! 


Wreath of the cliffs, again disclose ; 


The bark glides on — their fears are o'er; 


Midst rocky dells, each well-known stream 


Becedes the bold romantic shore, 


Shall sparkle in the summer beam ; 


Its features mingling fast. 


The birch, o'er precipice and cave, 


Gaze, Bertha ! gaze : thy lingering eye 


Its feathery foliage still shall wave, 


May still each lovely scene descry 


The ash midst rugged clefts unveil 


Of years for ever past ! 


Its coral clusters to the gale, 


There wave the woods, beneath whose shade 


And autumn shed a warmer bloom 


With bounding step thy childhood play'd, 


O'er the rich heath and glowing broom. 


Midst ferny glades and mossy lawns, 


But thy light footstep there no more 


Free as their native birds and fawns ; 


Each path, each dingle shall explore. 


Listening the sylvan sounds, that float 


In vain may smile each green recess, '■ 


On each low breeze, midst dells remote — 


— Who now shall pierce its loneliness? 


The ringdove's deep melodious moan, 


The stream through shadowy glens may stray, 


The rustling deer in thickets lone ; 


— Who now shall trace its glistening way ? 


The wild-bee's hum, the aspen's sigh, 


In solitude, in silence deep, 


The wood-stream's plaintive harmony. 


Shrined midst her rocks, shall Echo sleep, 


Dear scenes of many a sportive hour, 


No lute's wild swell again hall rise 


There thy own mountains darkly tower ! 


To wake her mystic melodies. 


Midst their gray rocks no glen so rude 


All soft may blow the mountain air, 


But thou hast loved its solitude ! 


— It will not wave thy graceful hair ! 



A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 217 


The mountain rose may bloom and die, 


As if its wave, so still, so fair, 


— It will not meet thy smiling eye ! 


More frowning mien might never wear, 


But like those scenes of vanish'd days, 


The twilight calm of mental rest 


Shall others ne'er delight ; 


Would steal in silence o'er thy breast, 


Far lovelier lands shall meet thy gaze, 


And wake that dear and balmy sigh 


Yet seem not half so bright ! 


That softly breathes the spirit's harmony ! 


O'er the dim woodlands' fading hue 


— Ah ! ne'er again shall hours to thee be given 


Still gleams yon Gothic pile on high ; 


Of joy on earth — -so near allied to heaven ! 


Gaze on, while yet 'tis thine to view 




That home of infancy ! 


Why starts the tear to Bertha's eye 1 


Heed not the night-dew's chilling power, 


Is not her long-loved Osbert nigh % 


Heed not the sea-wind's coldest hour, 


Is there a grief his voice, his smile, 


But pause and linger on the deck, 


His words, are fruitless to beguile 1 


Till of those towers no trace, no speck, 


— Oh ! bitter to the youthful heart, 


Is gleaming o'er the main ; 


That scarce a pang, a care has known, 


For when the mist of morn shall rise, 


The hour when first from scenes we part, 


Blending the sea, the shore, the skies, 


Where life's bright spring has flown ! 


That home, once vanish'd from thine eyes, 


Forsaking, o'er the world to roam, 


Shall bless them ne'er again ! 


That little shrine of peace — our home ! 




E'en if delighted fancy throw 


There the dark tales and songs of yore 


O'er that cold world, her brightest glow, 


First with strange transport thrill'd thy soul, 


Painting its untried paths with flowers, 


E'en while their fearful mystic lore 


That will not live in earthly bowers, 


From thy warm cheek the life-bloom stole. 


(Too frail, too exquisite, to bear 


There, while thy father's raptured ear 


One breath of life's ungenial air ;) 


Dwelt fondly on a strain so dear, 


E'en if such dreams of hope arise 


And in his eye the trembling tear 


As heaven alone can realise, 


Reveal'd his spirit's trance ; 


Cold were the breast that would not heave 


How oft, those echoing halls along, 


One sigh, the home of youth to leave ; 


Thy thrilling voice has swell'd the song — 


Stern were the heart that would not swell 


Tradition wild of other days, 


To breathe life's saddest word — farewell ! 


Or troubadour's heroic lays, 


Though earth has many a deeper woe, 


Or legend of romance ! 


Though tears more bitter far must flow, 


Oh ! many an hour has there been thine, 


That hour, whate'er our future lot, 


That memory's pencil oft shall dress 


That first fond grief, is ne'er forgot ! 


In softer shades, and tints that shine 




In mellow'd loveliness ! 


Such was the pang of Bertha's heart, 


While thy sick heart, and fruitless tears, 


The thought, that bade the tear-drop start ; 


Shall mourn, with fond and deep regret, 


And Osbert by her side 


The sunshine of thine early years, 


Heard the deep sigh, whose bursting swell 


Scarce deem'd so radiant — till it set ! 


Nature's fond struggle told too well ; 


The cloudless peace, unprized till gone, 


And days of future bliss portray'd, 


The bliss, till vanish'd hardly known ! 


And love's own eloquence essay' d, 




To soothe his plighted bride ! 


On rock and turret, wood and hill, 


Of bright Arcadian scenes he tells, 


The fading moonbeams linger still ; 


In that sweet land to which they fly ; 


Still, Bertha ! gaze on yon gray tower, 


The vine-clad rocks, the fragrant dells 


At evening's last and sweetest hour, 


Of blooming Italy. 


While varying still, the western skies 


For he had roved a pilgrim there, 


Flush'd the clear seas with rainbow dyes, 


And gazed on many a spot so fair 


Whose warm suffusions glow'd and pass'd, 


It seem'd like some enchanted grove, 


Each richer, lovelier, than the last. 


Where only peace, and joy, and love, 


How oft, while gazing on the deep, 


Those exiles of the world, might rove, 


That seem'd a heaven of peace to sleep, 


And breathe its heavenly air ; 



218 TALES AND HISTOKIC SCENES. 


And, all unmix'd with ruder tone, 


Long gazing o'er the dark'ning flood, 


Their "wood-notes wild" be heard alone ! 


Pale in that silent grief he stood, 


Far from the frown of stern control, 


Till the cold moon was waning fast, 


That vainly would subdue the soul, 


And many a lovely star had died, 


There shall their long-affianced hands 


And the gray heavens deep shadows cast 


Be join'd in consecrated bands. 


Far o'er the slumbering tide ; 


And in some rich, romantic vale, 


And, robed in one dark solemn hue, 


Circled with heights of Alpine snow, 


Arose the distant shore to view. 


Where citron-woods enrich the gale, 


Then, starting from his trance of woe, 


And scented shrubs their balm exhale, 


Tears, long suppress'd, in freedom flow, 


And flowering myrtles blow ; 


While thus his wild and plaintive strain 


And midst the mulberry boughs on high 


Blends with the murmur of the main : 


Weaves the wild vine her tapestry ; 




On some bright streamlet's emerald side, 


THE BARD'S FAREWELL. 


Where cedars wave in graceful pride, 


" Thou setting moon ! when next thy rays 


Bosom d in groves, their home shall rise, 


Are trembling on the shadowy deep, 


A shelter'd bower of paradise ! 


The land, now fading from thy gaze, 


Thus would the lover soothe to rest 


These eyes in vain shall weep ; 


With tales of hope her anxious breast ; 


And wander o'er the lonely sea, 


Nor vain that dear enchanting lore 


And fix their tearful glance on thee — 


Her soul's bright visions to restore, 


On thee ! whose light so softly gleams [streams. 


And bid gay phantoms of delight 


Through the green oaks that fringe my native 


Float in soft colouring o'er her sight. 




Youth ! sweet May-morn, fled so soon, 


" But midst those ancient groves, no more 


Far brighter than life's loveliest noon, 


Shall I thy quivering lustre hail ; 


How oft thy spirit's buoyant power 


Its plaintive strain my harp must pour 


Will triumph, e'en in sorrow's hour 


To swell a foreign gale. 


Prevailing o'er regret ! 


The rocks, the woods, whose echoes woke 


As rears its head th' elastic flower 


When its full tones their stillness broke, 


Though the dark tempest's recent shower 


Deserted now, shall hear alone 


Hang on its petals yet ! 


The brook's wild voice, the wind's mysterious moan. 


Ah ! not so soon can hope's gay smile 


" And oh ! ye fair, forsaken halls, 


The aged bard to joy beguile ; 


Left by your lord to slow decay, 


Those silent years that steal away 


Soon shall the trophies on yotir walls 


The cheek's warm rose, the eye's bright ray, 


Be mouldering fast away ! 


Win from the mind a nobler prize, 


There shall no choral songs resound, 


E'en all its buoyant energies ! 


There shall no festal board be crown'd ; 


For him the April days are past, 


But ivy wreathe the silent gate, 


When grief was but a fleeting cloud; 


And all be hush'd, and cold, and desolate. 


No transient shade will sorrow cast, 




When age the spirit's might has bow'd ! 


" No banner from the stately tower 


And, as he sees the land grow dim, 


Shall spread its blazon'd folds on high ; 


That native land now lost to him, 


There the wild brier and summer flower, 


Fix'd are his eyes, and clasp'd his hands, 


Unmark'd, shall wave and die. 


And long in speechless grief he stands : 


Home of the mighty ! thou art lone, 


So desolately calm his air, 


The noonday of thy pride is gone, 


He seems an image wrought to bear 


And, midst thy solitude profound, 


The stamp of deep, though hush'd despair. 


A step shall echo like unearthly sound ! 


Motion and life no sign bespeaks, 




Save that the night-breeze, o'er his cheeks, 


" From thy cold hearths no festal blaze 


Just waves his silvery hair ! 


Shall fill the hall with ruddy light, 


Nought else could teach the eye to know 


Nor welcome with convivial rays 


He was no sculptured form of woe ! 


Some pilgrim of the night. 



BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST. 



219 



But there shall grass luxuriant spread, 
As o'er the dwellings of the dead ; 
And the deep swell of every blast 
Seem a wild dirge for years of grandeur past. 

" And I — my joy of life is fled, 

My spirit's power, my bosom's glow ; 
The raven locks that graced my head, 

Wave in a wreath of snow ! 
And where the star of youth arose 
I deem'd life's lingering ray should close, 
And those loved trees my tomb o'ershade, 
Beneath whose archingbowers my childhood play'd. 

" Vain dream ! that tomb in distant earth 
Shall rise, forsaken and forgot ; 
And thou, sweet land that gavest me birth ! 

A grave must yield me not. 
Yet, haply, he for whom I leave 
Thy shores, in life's dark winter eve, 
When cold the hand, and closed the lays, 
And mute the voice he loved to praise, 
O'er the hush'd harp one tear may shed, 

And one frail garland o'er the minstrel's bed !" 



BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST. 

Twas night in Babylon : yet many a beam, 
Of lamps far glittering from her domes on high, 
Shone, brightly mingling in Euphrates' stream 
With the clear stars of that Chaldean sky, 
Whose azure knows no cloud : each whisper'd sigh 
Of the soft night-breeze through her terrace bowers, 
Bore deepening tones of joy and melody, 
O'er an illumined wilderness of flowers ; [towers. 
And the glad city's voice went up from all her 

But prouder mirth was in the kingly hall, 
Where midst adoring slaves, a gorgeous band, 
High at the stately midnight festival, 
Belshazzar sat enthroned. There luxury's hand 
Had shower'd around all treasures that expand 
Beneath the burning East ; all gems that pour 
The sunbeams back ; all sweets of many a land 
Whose gales waft incense from their spicy shore 
— But mortal pride look'd on, and still demanded 



With richer zest the banquet may be fraught, 
A loftier theme may swell the exulting strain ! 



The ]ord of nations spoke, — and forth were 

brought 
The spoils of Salem's devastated fane. 
Thrice-holy vessels ! — pure from earthly stain, 
And set apart, and sanctified to Him 
Who deign'd within the oracle to reign, 
Reveal'd yet shadow'd ; making noonday dim, 
To that most glorious cloud between the cherubim. 

They came, and louder peal'd the voice of song, 
And pride flash'd brighter from the kindling eye ; 
And He who sleeps not heard the elated throng, 
In mirth that plays with thunderbolts, defy 
The Rock of Zion ! Fill the nectar high, 
High in the cups of consecrated gold ! 
And crown the bowl with garlands, ere they die, 
And bid the censers of the temple hold 
Offerings to Babel's gods, the mighty ones of old! 

Peace ! — is it but a phantom of the brain, 
Thus shadow'd forth, the senses to appall, 
Yon fearful vision 1 Who shall gaze again 
To search its cause 1 Along the illumined wall, 
Startling yet riveting the eyes of all, 
Darkly it moves, — a hand, a human hand, 
O'er the bright lamps of that resplendent hall, 
In silence tracing, as a mystic wand, 
Words all unknown, the tongue of some far-distant 
land! 

There are pale cheeks around the regal board, 
And quivering limbs, and whispers deep and low, 
And fitful starts ! — the wine, in triumph pour'd, 
Untasted foams, the song hath ceased to flow, 
The waving censer drops to earth — and lo ! 
The king of men, the ruler, girt with mirth, 
Trembles before a shadow ! Say not so ! 
— The child of dust, with guilt's foreboding sight, 
Shrinks from the dread Unknown, the avenging 
Infinite ! 

" But haste ye ! — bring Chaldea's gifted seers, 
The men of prescience ! Haply to their eyes, 
Which track the future through the rolling spheres, 
Yon mystic sign may speak in prophecies." 
They come — the readers of the midnight skies, 
They that gave voice to visions — but in vain ! 
Still wrapt in clouds the awful secret lies, 
It hath no language midst the starry train, 
Earth has no gifted tongue heaven's mysteries to 



Then stood forth one, a child of other sires, 
And other inspiration ! — one of those 



220 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Who on the willows hung their captive lyres, 
And sat and wept, where Babel's river flows. 
His eye was bright, and yet the pale repose 
Of his pure features half o'erawed the mind ; 
Telling of inward mysteries — joys and woes 
In lone recesses of the soul enshrined ; 
Depths of a being seal'd and sever'd from mankind. 

Yes ! — what was earth to him, whose spirit pass'd 
Time's utmost bounds 1 on whose unshrinking sight 
Ten thousand shapes of burning glory cast 
Their full resplendence? Majesty and might 
Were in his dreams ; for him the veil of light 
Shrouding heaven's inmost sanctuary and throne, 
The curtain of th' unutterably bright, 
Was raised ! — to him,, in fearful splendour shown, 
Ancient of Days ! e'en Thou madest thy dread 
presence known. 

He spoke — the shadows of the things to come 
Pass'd o'er his soul : — " King, elate in pride ! 
God hath sent forth the writing of thy doom — 
The one, the living God, by thee defied ! 
He, in whose balance earthly lords are tried, 
Hath weigh'd, and found thee wanting. 'Tis de- 
creed 
The conqueror's hands thy kingdom shall divide, 
The stranger to thy throne of power succeed ! 
Thy days are full : they come, — the Persian and 
the Mede !" 

There fell a moment's thrilling silence round — 
A breathless pause ! — the hush of hearts that beat, 
And limbs that quiver. Is there not a sound, 
A gathering-cry, a tread of hurrying feet 1 
— 'Twas but some echo in the crowded street, 
Of far-heard revelry ; the shout, the song, 
The measured dance to music wildly sweet, 

1 As originally written, the following additional stanzas 
(afterwards omitted) concluded this poem : — 

Fallen is the golden city ! In the dust, 
Spoil'd of her crown, dismantled of her state, 
She that hath made the strength of towers her trust 
Weeps by her dead, supremely desolate ! 
She that beheld the nations at her gate, 
Thronging in homage, shall be call'd no mope 
Lady of kingdoms ! Who shall mourn her fate ? 
Her guilt is full, her march of triumph o'er — 
What widowd land shall now her widowhood deplore ? 

Sit thou in silence ! Thou that wert enthroned 
On many waters !— thou, whose augurs read 
The language of the planets, and disown 'd 
The mighty Name it blazons !— veil thy head, 
Daughter of Babylon ! The sword is red 
Prom thy destroyer's harvest, and the yoke 
Is on thee, O most proud !— for thou hast said, 
" I am, and none beside ! " Th' Eternal spoke ; 
Thy glory was a spoil, thine idol-gods were broke ! 



That speeds the stars their joyous course along — 
Away ! nor let a dream disturb the festal 
throng I 

Peace yet again ! Hark ! steps in tumult flying, 
Steeds rushing on, as o'er a battle-field ! 
The shouts of hosts exulting or defying, 
The press of multitudes that strive or yield ! 
And the loud startling clash of spear and shield, 
Sudden as earthquake's burst ; and, blent with 



The last wild shriek of those whose doom is seal'd 
In their full mirth ! — all deepening on the breeze, 
As the long stormy roll of far-advancing seas ! 

And nearer yet the trumpet's blast is swelling, 
Loud, shrill, and savage, drowning every cry ; 
And, lo ! the spoiler in the regal dwelling, 
Death — bursting on the halls of revelry ! 
Ere on their brows one fragile rose-leaf die, 
The sword hath raged through joy's devoted 

train; 
Ere one bright star be faded from the sky, 
Red flames, like banners, wave from dome and 

fane ; 
Empire is lost and won — Belshazzar with the 

slain. 1 

[Belshazzar's Feast had previously been published in the 
Collection of Poems from Living Authors, edited for a bene- 
volent purpose by Mrs Joanna Baillie. — Memoir, p. 68. 

" Miss Baillie's volume contained several poems by Mrs 
Hemans ; some jeuxd'esprit, by the late Miss Catherine 
Fanshawe, a woman of rare wit and genius, in whose society 
Scott greatly delighted ; and, inter alia, Mr William Howi- 
son's early ballad of Polydore, which had been originally 
published under Scott's auspices, in the Edinburgh Register 
for 1810." — Lockhart's Life of Scott, vol. v. p. 287. 

It is worthy of remembrance that Sir Walter's own " Mac- 
duffs Cross," and Southey's lively and eccentric nursery 
rhymesonthe " Cataract ofLodoar," first made their appear- 
ance in the collection referred to.] 



But go thou forth, Israel !— wake ! rejoice ! 
Be clothed with strength, as in thine ancient day ! 
Eenew the sound of harps, th' exulting voice, 
The mirth of timbrels ! — loose the chain, and say 
God hath redeem 'd his people ! — from decay 
The silent and the trampled shall arise ! 
Awake !— put on thy beautiful array, 
long-forsaken Zion ! — to the skies 
Send up on every wind thy choral melodies ! 

And lift thy head ! — Behold thy sons returning, 
Eedeem'd from exile, ransom'd from the chain, 
Light hath revisited the house of mourning; 
She that on Judah's mountains wept in vain, 
Because her children were not, dwells again 
Girt with the lovely ! Through thy streets once more, 
City of God ! shall pass the bridal train, 
And the bright lamps their festive radiance pour, 
And the triumphal hymns thy joy of youth restore ! 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



221 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



" Thou strivest nobly, 
When hearts of sterner stuff perhaps had sunk , 
And o'er thy fall, if it be so decreed, 
Good men will mourn, and brave men will shed tears. 

Fame I look not for ; 
But to sustain, in Heaven's all-seeing eye, 
Before my fellow men, in mine own sight, 
With graceful virtue and becoming pride, 
The dignity and honour of a man, 
Thus station 'd as I am, I will do all 
That man may do." 

Miss Baillie's " Constantine Palaeologus 



The fires grew pale on Eome's deserted shrines, 
In the dim grot the Pythia's voice had died ; 
— Shout for the City of the Constantines, 
The rising city of the billow-side, 
The City of the Cross ! — great ocean's bride, 
Crown'd with her birth she sprung ! Long ages 

past, 
And still she look'd in glory o'er the tide, 
Which at her feet barbaric riches cast, 
Pour'd by the burning East, all joyously and fast. 



Long ages past ! — they left her porphyry halls 
Still trod by kingly footsteps. Gems and gold 
Broider'd her mantle, and her castled walls 
Frown'd in their strength ; yet there were signs 

which told 
The days were full. The pure high faith of old 
Was changed ; and on her silken couch of sleep 
She lay, and murmur'd if a rose-leaf's fold 
Disturb'd her dreams; and call'd her slaves to 



Their watch, that no rude sound might reach her 
o'er the deep. 



But there are sounds that from the regal dwelling 
Free hearts and fearless only may exclude ; 
'Tis not alone the wind at midnight swelling, 
Breaks on the soft repose by luxury woo'd ! 
There are unbidden footsteps, which intrude 
Where the lamps glitter and the wine-cup flows ; 
And darker hues have stain'd the marble, strew'd 
With the fresh myrtle and the short-lived rose ; 
And Parian walls have rung to the dread march 
of foes. 

1 The army of Mohammed the Second, at the siege of 
Constantinople, was thronged with fanatics of all sects and 
nations, who were not enrolled amongst the regular troops. 



A voice of multitudes is on the breeze, 
Eemote, yet solemn as the night-storm's roar 
Through Ida's giant-pines ! Across the seas 
A murmur comes, like that the deep winds bore 
From Tempe's haunted river to the shore 
Of the reed-crown'd Eurotas ; when, of old, 
Dark Asia sent her battle-myriads o'er 
Th' indignant wave, which would not be control!' d, 
But past the Persian's chain in boundless freedom 
roll'd. 



And it is thus again ! Swift oars are dashing 
The parted waters, and a light is cast [flashing 
On their white foam-wreaths, from the sudden 
Of Tartar spears, whose ranks are thickening fast. 
There swells a savage trumpet on the blast, 
A music of the deserts, wild and deep, 
Wakening strange echoes, as the shores are pass'd 
Where low midst Ilion's dust her conquerors sleep, 
O'ershadowing with high names each rude sepul- 
chral heap. 



War from the West ! — the snows on Thracian hills 
Are loosed by Spring's warm breath ; yet o'er the 

lands 
Which Haemus girds, the chainless mountain-rills 
Pour down less swiftly than the Moslem bands. 
War from the East ! — midst Araby's lone sands, 
More lonely now the few bright founts may be, 
While Ismael's bow is bent in warrior-hands 
Against the Golden City of the sea. x 
— Oh ! for a soul to fire thy dust, Thermopylae ! 



Hear yet again, ye mighty ! — Where are they 
Who, with their green Olympic garlands crown'd, 
Leap'd up in proudly beautiful array, 
As to a banquet gathering, at the sound 
Of Persia's clarion ] Far and joyous round, 
From the pine forests, and the mountain snows, 
And the low sylvan valleys, to the bound 
Of the bright waves, at freedom's voice they rose ! 
— Hath it no thrilling tone to break the tomb's 
repose 1 



They slumber with their swords ! — the olive shades 
In vain are whispering their immortal tale ! 

The Sultan himself marched upon the city from Adrianople ; 
but his army must have been principally collected in the 
Asiatic provinces, which he had previously visited. 



222 



TALES AND HISTOEIC SCENES. 



In vain the spirit of the past pervades [vale. 

The soft winds, breathing through each Grecian 
Yet must thou wake, though all unarm'd and pale, 
Devoted City ! Lo ! the Moslem's spear, 
Red from its vintage, at thy gates ; his sail 
Upon thy waves, his trumpet in thine ear ! 
— Awake ! and summon those, who yet per- 
chance may hear ! 



Be hush'd, thou faint and feeble voice of weeping ! 
Lift ye the banner of the Cross on high, 
And call on chiefs, whose noble sires are sleeping 
In their proud graves of sainted chivalry, 
Beneath the palms and cedars, where they sigh 
To Syrian gales ! The sons of each brave line 
From their baronial halls shall hear your cry, 
And seize the arms which flash'd round Salem's 
shrine, Palestine ! 

And wield for you the swords once waved for 



All still, all voiceless ! — and the billow's roar 
Alone replies ! Alike their soul is gone 
Who shared the funeral-feast on (Eta's shore, 
And theirs that o'er the field of Ascalon 
Swell'd the crusaders' hymn ! Then gird thou on 
Thine armour, Eastern Queen ! and meet the hour 
Which waits thee ere the day's fierce work is done 
With a strong heart : so may thy helmet tower 
Unshiver'd through the storm, for generous hope 
is power ! 



But linger not, — array thy men of might ! 
The shores, the seas, are peopled with thy foes. 
Arms through thy cypress groves are gleaming 

bright, 
And the dark huntsmen of the wild, repose 
Beneath the shadowy marble porticoes 
Of thy proud villas. Nearer and more near, 
Around thy walls the sons of battle close ; 
Each hour, each moment, hath its sound of fear, 
Which the deep grave alone is charter'd not to hear ! 



Away ! bring wine, bring odours, to the shade 1 
Where the tall pine and poplar blend on high ! 

1 " Hue vina, et unguenta, et nimium breves 
Flores amcenae ferre jube rosas." — Horace. 
2 The castle of the Seven Towers is mentioned in the 
Byzantine history, as early as the sixth century of the Chris- 
tian era, as an edifice which contributed materially to the 
defence of Constantinople ; and it was the principal bulwark 



Bring roses, exquisite, but soon to fade ! 
Snatch every brief delight, — since we must die ! — 
Yet is the hour, degenerate Greeks ! gone by, 
For feast in vine-wreath'd bower or pillar'd hall ; 
Dim gleams the torch beneath yon fiery sky, 
And deep and hollow is the tambour's call, [fall. 
And from the startled hand th' untasted cup will 



The night — the glorious oriental night, 
Hath lost the silence of her purple heaven, 
With its clear stars ! The red artillery's light, 
Athwart her worlds of tranquil splendour driven, 
To the still firmament's expanse hath given 
Its own fierce glare, wherein each cliff and tower 
Starts wildly forth ; and no w the air is riven [lower, 
With thunder-bursts, and now dull smoke-clouds 
Veiling the gentle moon, in her most hallo w'd hour. 



Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth, 
Sounds in the air, of battle ! Yet with these 
A voice is mingling, whose deep tones give birth 
To faith and courage ! From luxurious ease 
A gallant few have started ! O'er the seas, [sign ; 
From the Seven Towers, 2 their banner waves its 
And Hope is whispering in the joyous breeze, 
Which plays amidst its folds. That voice was thine; 
Tliy soul was on that band, devoted Constantine. 



Was Rome thy parent 1 Didst thou catch from- her 
The fire that lives in thine undaunted eye ? 
— That city of the throne and sepulchre 
Hath given proud lessons how to reign and die ! 
Heir of the Csesars ! did that lineage high, 
Which, as a triumph to the grave, hath pass'd 
With its long march of spectred imagery, 3 
Th' heroic mantle o'er thy spirit cast ? 
Thou ! of an eagle-race the noblest and the last ! 



Vain dreams ! Upon that spirit hath descended 
Light from the living Fountain, whence each 

thought 
Springs pure and holy ! In that eye is blended 
A spark, with earth's triumphal memories fraught, 
And, far within, a deeper meaning, caught 

of the town on the coast of the Propontis, in the later periods 
of the empire. For a description of this building, see Pouque- 
ville's Travels. 

3 An allusion to the Roman custom of carrying in pro- 
cession, at the funerals of their great men, the images of their 






THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



223 



From worlds unseen. A hope, a lofty trust, 
Whose resting-place on buoyant wing is sought 
(Though throTigh its veil seen darkly from the 
dust) [the just. 

In realms where Time no more hath power upon 



Those were proud days, when on the battle-plain, 
And in the sun's bright face, and midst th' array 
Of awe-struck hosts, and circled by the slain, 
The Eoman cast his glittering mail away, 1 
And while a silence, as of midnight, lay 
O'er breathless thousaDds at his voice who started, 
Call'd on the unseen terrific powers that sway 
The heights, the depths, the shades ; then, fear- 
less-hearted, 
Girt on his robe of death, and for the grave de- 
parted ! 



But then, around him as the javelins rush'd, 
From earth to heaven swell'd up the loud acclaim; 
And, ere his heart's last free libation gush'd, 
With a bright smile, the warrior caught his name 
Far-floating on the winds ! And Victory came, 
And made the hour of that immortal deed 
A life, in fiery feeling ! Valour's aim 
Had sought no loftier guerdon. Thus to bleed 
Was to be Rome's high star ! — He died— and had 
his meed. 



But praise — and dearer, holier praise be theirs, 

Who, in the stillness and the solitude 

Of hearts press'd earthwards by a weight of cares, 

Uncheer'd by Fame's proud hope, th' ethereal food 

Of restless energies, and only viev/d 

By Him whose eye, from his eternal throne, 

Is on the soul's dark places ; have subdued 

And vow'd themselves with 'strength till then 

unknown, 
To some high martyr-task, in secret and alone. 



1 The following was the ceremony of consecration with 
which Decius devoted himself in battle :— He was ordered by 
Valerius, the Pontifex Maximus, to quit his military habit, 
and put on the robe he wore in the senate. Valerius then 
covered his head with a veil, commanded him to put forth 
his hand under his robe to his chin, and, standing with both 
feet upon a javelin, to repeat these words :— " O Jauus, 
Jupiter, Mars, Romulus, Bellona ! and ye, Lares and 
Novensiles ! All you heroes who dwell in heaven ! and all 
ye gods who rule over us and our enemies — especially ye gods 
of hell ! — I honour you, invoke you, and humbly entreat you 
to prosper the arms of the Romans, and to transfer all fear 
and terror from them to then enemies ; and I do, for the 



Theirs be the bright and sacred names, enshrined 
Far in the bosom ! for their deeds belong, 
Not to the gorgeous faith which charm'd mankind 
With its rich pomp of festival and song, 
Garland, and shrine, and incense-bearing throng ; 
But to that Spirit, hallowing, as it tries 
Man's hidden soul in whispers, yet more strong 
Than storm or earthquake's voice ; for thence arise 
All that mysterious world's unseen sublimities. 



Well might thy name, brave Constantine ! awake 
Such thought, such feeling ! — But the scene again 
Bursts on my vision, as the day-beams break 
Through the red sulphurous mists : the camp, the 

plain, 
The terraced palaces, the dome-capt fane, 
With its bright cross fix'd high in crowning grace ; 
Spears on the ramparts, galleys on the main, 
And, circling all with arms, that turban'd race — 
The sun, the desert, stamp'd in each dark haughty 

face. 



Shout, ye seven hills ! Lo ! Christian pennons 

streaming 
Red o'er the waters ! 2 Hail, deliverers, hail ! 
Along your billowy wake the radiance gleaming, 
Is Hope's own smile ! They crowd the swelling sail , 
On, with the foam, the sunbeam and the gale, 
Borne, as a victor's car ! The batteries pour 
Their clouds and thunders ; but the rolling veil 
Of smoke floats up the exulting winds before ! 
— And oh ! the glorious burst of that bright sea 

and shore ! 



The rocks, waves, ramparts, Europe's, Asia's coast, 
All throng'd ! one theatre for kingly war ! 
A monarch, girt with his barbaric host, 
Points o'er the beach his flashing scimitar ! 



safety of the Roman people, and their legions, devote myself, 
and with myself the army and auxiliaries of the enemy, to 
the infernal gods, and the goddess of the earth." Decius 
then, girding his robe around them, mounted his horse, and 
rode full speed into the thickest of the enemy's battalions. 
The Latins were, for a while, thunderstruck at this spectacle ; 
but at length recovering themselves, they discharged a shower 
of darts, under which the Consul fell. 

2 See Gibbon's animated description of the arrival of five 
Christian ships, with men and provisions, for the succour 
of the besieged, not many days before the fall of Con- 
stantinople.— Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. 
xii. p. 215. 



224 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Dark tribes are tossing javelins from afar, 
Hands waving banners o'er each battlement, 
Decks, with their serried guns, array'd to bar 
The promised aid : but hark ! a shout is sent 
Up from the noble barks ! — the Moslem line is 
rent! 

XXIV. 

On, on through rushing flame and arrowy shower, 
The welcome prows have cleft their rapid way; 
And, with the shadows of the vesper hour, 
Furl'd their white sails, and anchor'd in the bay. 
Then were the streets with song and torch-fire gay, 
Then the Greek wines flow'd mantling in the light 
Of festal halls ; and there was joy ! — the ray 
Of dying eyes, a moment wildly bright — 
The sunset of the soul, ere lost to mortal sight. 



For vain that feeble succour ! Day by day 
Th' imperial towers are crumbling, and the sweep 
Of the vast engines, in their ceaseless play, 
Comes powerful, as when heaven unbinds the deep! 
— Man's heart is mightier than the castled steep, 
Yet will it sink when earthly hope is fled ; 
Man's thoughts wox-k darkly in such hours, and sleep 
Flies far ; and in their mien, the walls who tread, 
Things by the brave untold may fearfully be read! 

XXVI. 

It was a sad and solemn task, to hold 
Their midnight-watch on that beleaguer'd wall ! 
As the sea-wave beneath the bastions roll'd, 
A sound of fate was in its rise and fall ; 
The heavy clouds were as an empire's pall, 
The giant shadows of each tower and fane 
Lay like the grave's ; a low mysterious call 
Breathed in the wind, and, from the tented plain, 
A voice of omens rose with each wild martial strain. 

XXVII. 

For they might catch the Arab chargers neighing, 
The Thracian drum, the Tartar's drowsy song ; 
Might almost hear the soldan's banner swaying, 
The watchword mutter'd in some eastern tongue. 
Then flash'd the gun's terrific light along 
The marble streets, all stillness — not repose; 
And boding thoughts came o'er them, dark and 
strong ; 

1 " The summits of the lofty rocks in the Carnatic, par- 
ticularly about the Ghauts, are sometimes covered with the 
bamboo tree, which grows in thick clumps, and is of such 
uncommon aridity that, in the sultry season of the year, the 
friction occasioned by a strong dry wind will literally produce 



For heaven, earth, air, speak auguries to those 
Who see their number'd hours fast pressing to the 
close. 

XXVIII. 

But strength is from the Mightiest ! There is one 

Still in the breach and on the rampart seen, 

Whose cheek shows paler with each morning sun, 

And tells in silence how the night hath been 

In kingly halls a vigil : yet serene 

The ray set deep within his thoughtful eye ; 

And there is that in his collected mien, 

To which the hearts of noble men reply 

With fires, partaking not this frame's mortality ! 



Yes ! call it not of lofty minds the fate 
To pass o'er earth in brightness but alone ; 
High power was made their birthright, to create 
A thousand thoughts responsive to their own ! 
A thousand echoes of their spirit's tone 
Start into life, where'er their path may be, 
Still following fast; as when the wind hath blown 
O'er Indian groves, 1 a wanderer wild and free, 
Kindling and bearing flames afar from tree to tree! 



And it is thus with thee ! thy lot is cast 

On evil days, thou Csesar ! — yet the few, 

That set their generous bosom to the blast 

Which rocks thy throne — the fearless and the true, 

Bear hearts wherein thy glance can still renew 

The free devotion of the years gone by, 

When from bright dreams th' ascendant Roman 

drew 
Enduring strength ! States vanish — ages fly — 
But leave one task unchanged — to suffer and to die! 



These are our nature's heritage. But thou, 
The cro wn'd with empire ! thou wert call'd to share 
A cup more bitter. On thy fever'd brow 
The semblance of that buoyant hope to wear, 
Which long had pass'd away; alone to bear 
The rush and pressure of dark thoughts, that came 
As a strong billow in their weight of care, 
And with all this to smile ! For earth-born frame 
These are stern conflicts, yet they pass, unknown 
to fame ! 

sparks of fire, which, frequently setting the woods in a blaze, 
exhibit to the spectator stationed in a valley surrounded by 
rocks, a magnificent though imperfect circle of fire." — Notes 
to Kindersley's Specimens of Hindoo Literature. 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



225 



XXXII. 

Her glance is on the triumph, on the field, 
On the red scaffold ; and where'er,, in sight 
Of human eyes, the human soul is steel'd 
To deeds that seem as of immortal might, 
Yet are proud Nature's ! But her meteor-light 
Can pierce no depths, no clouds; it falls not where 
In silence, and in secret, and in night, 
The noble heart doth wrestle with despair, 
And rise more strong than death from its unwit- 
ness'd prayer. 

XXXIII. 

Men have been firm in battle ; they have stood 
With a prevailing hope on ravaged plains, 
And won the birthright of their hearths with blood, 
And died rejoicing, midst their ancient fanes, 
That so their children, undefiled with chains, 
Might worship there in peace. But they that stand 
When not a beacon o'er the wave remains, 
Link'd but to perish with a ruin'd land, 
Where Freedom dies with them — call these a 
martyr-band ! 

XXXIV. 

But the world heeds them not. Or if, perchance, 
Upon their strife it bend a careless eye, 
It is but as the Boman's stoic glance 
Fell on that stage, where man's last agony 
Was made his sport, who, knowing one must die, 
Beck'd not which champion ; but prepared the strain, 
And bound the bloody wreath of victory, 
To greet the conqueror; while, with calm disdain, 
The vanquish'd proudly met the doom he met in 
vain. 



The hour of Fate comes on ! and it is fraught 
With this of Liberty, that now the need 
Is past to veil the brow of anxious thought, [bleed, 
And clothe the heart, which still beneath must 
With Hope's fair-seeming drapery. We are freed 
From tasks like these by misery : one alone 
Is left the brave, and rest shall be thy meed, 
Prince, watcher, wearied one ! when thou hast 
shown [and throne. 

How brief the cloudy space which parts the grave 

xxxvi. 
The signs are full. They are not in the sky, 
Nor in the many voices of the air, 

1 Those who steer their westward course through the middle 
of the Propontis may at once descry the high lands of Thrace 
and Bithynia, and never lose sight of the lofty summit of 



Nor the swift clouds. No fiery hosts on high 
Toss their wild spears : no meteor banners glare, 
No comet fiercely shakes its blazing hair ; 
And yet the signs are full : too truly seen 
In the thinn'd ramparts, in the pale despair 
Which lends one language to a people's mien, 
And in the ruin'd heaps where wall and towers 
have been ! 

XXXVII. 

It is a night of beauty : such a night 
As, from the sparry grot or laurel-shade, 
Or wave in marbled cavern rippling bright, 
Might woo the nymphs of Grecian fount and glade 
To sport beneath its moonbeams, which pervade 
Their forest haunts ; a night to rove alone 
Where the youngleaves by vernal winds are sway' d, 
And the reeds whisper with a dreamy tone 
Of melody that seems to breathe from worlds 
unknown ; 

XXXVIII. 

A night to call from green Elysium's bowers 
The shades of elder bards ; a night to hold 
Unseen communion with th' inspiring powers 
That made deep groves their dwelling-place of old; 
A night for mourners, o'er the hallow'd mould, 
To strew sweet flowers — for revellers to fill 
And wreathe the cup — for sorrows to be told 
Which love hath cherish'd long. Vain thoughts ! 

be still ! 
It is a night of fate, stamp'd with Almighty Will ! 

XXXIX. 

It should come sweeping in the storm, and rending 
The ancient summits in its dread career ! 
And with vast billows wrathfully contending, 
And with dark clouds o'ershadowing every sphere ! 
But He, whose footstep shakes the earth with fear, 
Passing to lay the sovereign cities low, 
Alike in His omnipotence is near, 
When the soft winds o'er spring's green pathway 

blow, 
And when His thunders cleave the monarch 

mountain's brow. 



The heavens in still magnificence look down 
On the hush'd Bosphorus, whose ocean stream 
Sleeps with its paler stars : the snowy crown 
Of far Olympus, 1 in the moonlight gleam, 

Mount Olympus, covered with eternal snows.— Decline ai 
Fall, &c. vol. iii. p. 8. 



226 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Towers radiantly, as when the Pagan's dream 
Throng'd it with gods, and bent th' adoring knee; 
— But that is past — and now the One Supreme 
Fills not alone those haunts, but earth, air, sea, 
And Time, which presses on to finish his decree. 



Olympus, Ida, Delphi ! ye, the thrones 
And temples of a visionary might, 
Brooding in clouds above your forest zones, 
And mantling thence the realms beneath with 

night : 
Ye havelook'd down on battles — Fear and Flight, 
And arm'd Revenge, all hurrying past below ! — 
But there is yet a more appalling sight 
For earth prepared than e'er, with tranquil brow, 
Ye gazed on from your world of solitude and snow ! 



Last night a sound was in the Moslem camp, 
And Asia's hills re-echo'd to a cry [tramp 

Of savage mirth ! Wild horn and war-steeds' 
Blent with the shout of barbarous revelry, 
The clash of desert-spears ! Last night the sky 
A hue of menace and of wrath put on, 
Caught from red watch-fires, blazing far and high, 
And countless as the flames in ages gone, 
Streaming to heaven's bright queen from shadowy 
Lebanon ! 

XLIII. 

But all is stillness now. May this be sleep 
Which wraps those Eastern thousands 1 Yes ! 

perchance 
Along yon moonlit shore and dark-blue deep, 
Bright are their visions with the Houri's glance, 
And they behold the sparkling fountains dance 
Beneath the bowers of paradise that shed 
Rich odours o'er the faithful ; but the lance, 
The bow, the spear, now round the slumberers 

spread, [dead. 

Ere Fate fulfil such dreams, must rest beside the 

XLIV. 

May this be sleep, this hush 1 — A sleepless eye 
Doth hold its vigil midst that dusky race ! 
One that would scan th' abyss of destiny 
E'en now is gazing on the skies to trace, 
In those bright worlds, the burning isles of space, 
Fate's mystic pathway : they the while, serene, 
Walk in their beauty ; but Mohammed's face 



1 Mohammed II. was greatly addicted to the study of 
astrology. His calculations in this science led him to fix 



Kindles beneath their aspect, 1 and his mien, 
All fired with stormy joy, by that soft light is 



XLV. 

Oh ! wild presumption of a conqueror's dream, 
To gaze on those pure altar-fires, enshrined 
In depths of blue infinitude, and deem 
They shine to guide the spoiler of mankind 
O'er fields of blood ! But with the restless mind 
It hath been ever thus ! and they that weep 
For worlds to conquer, o'er the bounds assign'd 
To human search, in daring pride would sweep, 
As o'er the trampled dust wherein they soon must 
sleep. 



But ye ! that beam'd on Fate's tremendous night, 
When the storm burst o'er golden Babylon; 
And ye, that sparkled with your wonted light 
O'er burning Salem, by the Roman won ; 
And ye, that calmly view'd the slaughter done 
In Rome's own streets, when Alaric's trumpet-blast 
Rang through the Capitol : bright spheres ! roll 

on ! 
StUl bright, though empires fall ; and bid man cast 
His humbled eyes to earth, and commune with 

the past. 

XLVII. 

For it hath mighty lessons ! from the tomb, 
And from the ruins of the tomb, and where, 
Midst the wreck'd cities in the desert's gloom, 
All tameless creatures make their savage lair, 
TJience comes its voice, that shakes the midnight 

air, 
And calls up clouds to dim the laughing day, 
And thrills the soul ; — yet bids us not despair, 
But make one Rock our shelter and our stay, 
Beneath whose shade all else is passing to decay ! 

XLVIII. 

The hours move on. I see a wavering gleam 
O'er the hush'd* waters tremulously fall, 
Pour'd from the Csesars' palace ; now the beam 
Of many lamps is brightening in the hall, 
And from its long arcades and pillars tall 
Soft graceful shadows undulating lie 
On the wave's heaving bosom, and recall 
A thought of Venice, with her moonlight sky, 
And festal seas and domes, and fairy pageantry. 



upon the morning of the 29th of May, as the fortunate hour 
for a general attack upon the city. 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



227 



But from that dwelling floats no mirthful sound ! 
The swell of flute and Grecian lyre no more, 
Wafting an atmosphere of music round, 
Tells the hush'd seaman, gliding past the shore, 
How monarchs revel there ! Its feasts are o'er — 
Why gleam the lights along its colonnade 1 
— I see a train of guests in silence pour 
Through its long avenues of terraced shade, 
Whose stately founts and bowers for joy alone 
were made ! 



In silence, and in arms ! With helm — with 

sword — 
These are no marriage garments ! Yet e'en now 
Thy nuptial feast should grace the regal board, 
Thy Georgian bride should wreathe her lovely brow 
With an imperial diadem I 1 — but thou, 
fated prince ! art call'd, and these with thee, 
To darker scenes ; and thou hast learn'd to bow 
Thine Eastern sceptre to the dread decree, 
And count it joy enough to perish — being free ! 



On through long vestibules, with solemn tread, 
As men, that in some time of fear and woe, 
Bear darkly to their rest the noble dead, 
O'er whom by day their sorrows may not flow, 
The warriors pass : their measured steps are slow, 
And hollow echoes fill the marble halls, 
Whose long-drawn vistas open as they go 
In desolate pomp ; and from the pictured walls, 
Sad seems the light itself which on their armour 
falls ! 



And they have reach'd a gorgeous chamber, bright 

With all we dream of splendour ; yet a gloom 

Seems gather'd o'er it to the boding sight, 

A shadow that anticipates the tomb ! 

Still from its fretted roof the lamps illume 

A purple canopy, a golden throne ; 

But it is empty ! — hath the stroke of doom 

Fallen there already 1 Where is He, the One, 

Born that high seat to fill, supremely and alone 1 



Oh ! there are times whose pleasure doth efface 
Earth's vain distinctions ! When the storm beats 
loud, 

1 Constantine Palsologus was betrothed to a Georgian 
princess, and the very spring which witnessed the fall of 



When the strong towers are tottering to their base, 
And the streets rock, — who mingle in the crowd ] 
— Peasant and chief, the lowly and the proud, 
Are in that throng ! Yes, life hath many an hour 
Which makes us kindred, by one chast'ning bow'd, 
And feeling but, as from the storm we cower, 
What shrinking weakness feels before unbounded 
power ! 

LIV. 

Yet then that Power, whose dwelling is on high, 
Its loftiest marvels doth reveal, and speak, 
In the deep human heart more gloriously, 
Than in the bursting thunder ! Thence the weak, 
They that seem'd form'd, as flower-stems, but to 

break [name 

With the first wind, have risen to deeds whose 
Still calls up thoughts that mantle to the cheek, 
And thrill the pulse ! — Ay, strength no pangs could 

tame [and flame ! 

Hath look'd from woman's eye upon the sword 



And this is of such hours ! — That throne is void, 
And its lord comes uncrown'd. Behold him stand, 
With a calm brow, where woes have not destroy'd 
The Greek's heroic beauty, midst his band, 
The gather'd virtue of a sinking land — 
Alas ! how scanty ! Now is cast aside 
All form of princely state ; each noble hand 
Is press'd by turns in his : for earthly pride 
There is no room in hearts where earthly hope 
hath died ! 



A moment's hush — and then he speaks — he speaks! 
But not of hope ! that dream hath long gone by : 
His words are full of memory — as he seeks, 
By the strong names of Eome and Liberty, 
Which yet are living powers that fire the eye, 
And rouse the heart of manhood ; and by all 
The sad yet grand remembrances, that lie 
Deep with earth's buried heroes ; to recall 
The soul of other years, if but to grace their fall ! 



His words are full of faith ! — and thoughts, more 

high 
Than Eome e'er knew, now fill his glance with light; 
Thoughts which give nobler lessons how to die, 
Than e'er were drawn from Nature's haughty might ! 

Constantinople had been fixed upon as the time for convey- 
ing the imperial bride to that city. 



228 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



And to that eye, with all the spirit bright, 
Have theirs replied in tears, which may not shame 
The bravest in such moments ! 'Tis a sight 
To make all earthly splendours cold and tame, 
— That generous burst of soul, with its electric 
flame ! 

LVIII. 

They weep — those champions of the Cross — they 

weep, 
Yet vow themselves to death ! Ay, midst that train, 
Are martyrs, privileged in tears to steep 
Their lofty sacrifice ! The pang is vain, 
And yet its gush of sorrow shall not stain 
A warrior's sword. Those men are strangers 

here : * 
The homes they never may behold again, 
Lie far away, with all things blest and dear, 
On laughing shores, to which their barks no more 

shall steer ! 



Know'st thou the land where bloom the orange 

bowers? 2 
Where, through dark foliage, gleam the citron's 

dyes? 
• — It is their own. They see their fathers' towers 
Midst its Hesperian groves in sunlight rise : 
They meet, in soul, the bright Italian eyes 
Which long and vainly shall explore the main 
For their white sails' return : the melodies 
Of that sweet land are floating o'er their brain — 
Oh ! what a crowded world one moment may 

contain ! 



Such moments come to thousands ! — few may die 
Amidst their native shades. The young, the brave, 
The beautiful, whose gladdening voice and eye 
Made summer in a parent's heart, and gave 
Light to their peopled homes; o'er land and wave 
Are scatter'd fast and far, as rose-leaves fall 
From the deserted stem. They find a grave 
Far from the shadow of th' ancestral hall, 
Alonelybedis theirs, whose smiles were hopeto all ! 



But life flows on, and bears us with its tide, 
Nor may we, lingering, by the slumberers dwell, 

1 Many of the adherents of Constantine, in his last noble 
stand for the liberties, or rather the honour, of a falling 
empire, were foreigners, and chiefly Italians. 

2 This and the next line are an almost literal translation 
from a beautiful song of Goethe's :— 



Though they were those once blooming at our side 
In youth's gay home ! Away ! what sound's deep 

swell 
Comes on the wind 1 ? — It is an empire's knell, 
Slow, sad, majestic, pealing through the night ! 
For the last time speaks forth the solemn bell 
Which calls the Christians to their holiest rite, 
With a funereal voice of solitary might. 



Again, and yet again ! A startling power 
In sounds like these lives ever; for they bear, 
Full on remembrance, each eventful hour 
Checkering life's crowded path. They fill the air 
When conquerors pass, and fearful cities wear 
A mien like joy's; and when your brides are led 
From their paternal homes ; and when the glare 
Of burning streets on midnight's cloud waves red, 
And when the silent house receives its guest— 
the dead. 3 



But to those tones what thrilling soul was given 
On that last night of empire ! As a spell 
Whereby the life-blood to its source is driven, 
On the chill'd heart of multitudes they fell. 
Each cadence seem'd a prophecy, to tell 
Of sceptres passing from their line away, 
An angel- watcher's long and sad farewell, 
The requiem of a faith's departing sway, 
A throne's, a nation's dirge, a wail for earth's decay. 



Again, and yet again ! — from yon high dome, 
Still the slow peal comes awfully; and they 
Who never more, to rest in mortal home, 
Shall throw the breastplate off at fall of day, 
Th' imperial band, in close and arm'd array, 
As men that from the sword must part no more, 
Take through the midnight streets their silent way, 
Within their ancient temple to adore, 
Ere yet its thousand years of Christian pomp are 



It is the hour of sleep : yet few the eyes 

O'er which forgetfulness her balm hath shed 

In the beleaguer'd city. Stillness lies, 

With moonlight, o'er the hills and waters spread, 

" Kennst du das land, wo die zitrcnen bluhn 
Mit dunkeln laub die gold orangen gluhn ? " etc. 

3 The idea expressed in this stanza is beautifully amplified 
in Schiller's poem, " Das Lied der Glocke." 






THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



229 



But not the less, with signs and sounds of dread, 
The time speeds on. No voice is raised to greet 
The last brave Constantine ; and yet the tread 
Of many steps is in the echoing street, 
And pressure of pale crowds, scarce conscious why 
they meet. 



Their homes are luxury's yet; why pour they thence 
With a dim terror in each restless eye 1 
Hath the dread car which bears the pestilence, 
In darkness, with its heavy wheels roll'd by, 
And rock'd their palaces, as if on high [board 
The whirlwind pass'd 1 From couch and joyous 
Hath the fierce phantom beckon'd them to die ! x 
— No ! — what are these 1 — for them a cup is 
pour'd [and the sword. 

More dark with wrath, — man comes — the spoiler 



Still, as the monarch and his chieftains pass 
Through those pale throngs, the streaming torch- 
light throws 
On some wild form, amidst the living mass, 
Hues, deeply red like lava's, which disclose 
What countless shapes are worn by mortal woes ! 
Lips bloodless, quivering limbs, hands clasp'd in 
prayer, [shows 

Starts, tremblings, hurryings, tears ; all outward 
Betokening inward agonies, were there : [despair ! 
Greeks ! Eomans ! all but such as image brave 

Lxvin. 
But high above that scene, in bright repose, 
And beauty borrowing from the torches' gleams 
A mien of life, yet where no life-blood flows, 
But all instinct with loftier being seems, 
Pale, grand, colossal : lo ! th' embodied dreams 
Of yore ! — Gods, heroes, bards, in marble wrought, 
Look down, as powers, upon the wild extremes 
Of mortal passion ! Yet 'twas man that caught, 
And in each glorious form enshrined immortal 
thought ! 



Stood ye not thus amidst the streets of Rome 1 
That Rome which witness'd, in her sceptred days, 
So much of noble death] When shrine and dome, 
Midst clouds of incense, rang with choral lays, 

1 It is said to be a Greek superstition that the plague 
is announced by the heavy rolling of an invisible chariot, 
heard in the streets at midnight ; and also by the appearance 
of a gigantic spectre, who summons the devoted person by 
name. 



As the long triumph pass'd, with all its blaze 
Of regal spoil, were ye not proudly borne, 
sovereign forms ! concentring all the rays 
Of the soul's lightnings ? — did ye not adorn 
The pomp which earth stood still to gaze on, and 
to mourn 1 



Hath it been thus 1 — Or did ye grace the halls, 
Once peopled by the mighty 1 Haply there, . 
In your still grandeur, from the pillar'd walls 
Serene ye smiled on banquets of despair, 2 
Where hopeless courage wrought itself to dare 
The stroke of its deliverance, midst the glow 
Of living wreaths, the sighs of perfumed air, 
The sound of lyres, the flower-crown'd goblet's 
flow. [ings now ! 

— Behold again ! — high hearts make nobler offer- 

LXXI. 

The stately fane is reach'd — and at its gate, 
The warriors pause. On life's tumultuous tide 
A stillness falls, while he whom regal state 
Hath mark'd from all, to be more sternly tried 
By suffering, speaks : each ruder voice hath died, 
While his implores forgiveness ! — " If there be 
One midst your throngs, my people ! whom, in 

pride 
Or passion, I have wrong'd ; such pardon free 
As mortals hope from heaven, accord that man to 

me !" 

LXXII. 

But all is silence ; and a gush of tears 
Alone replies ! He hath not been of those 
Who, fear'd by many, pine in secret fears 
Of all ; th' environ'd but by slaves and foes, 
To whom day brings not safety, night repose, 
For they have heard the voice cry, " Sleep no more/" 
Of them he hath not been, nor such as close 
Their hearts to misery, till the time is o'er, 
When it speaks low and kneels th' oppressor's 
throne before ! 

LXXIII. 

He hath been loved. But who may trust the love 
Of a degenerate race 1 — in other mould 
Are cast the free and lofty hearts that prove 
Their faith through fiery trials. Yet behold, 

2 Many instances of such banquets, given and shared by 
persons resolved upon death, might be adduced from ancient 
history. That of Vibius Virius, at Capua, is amongst the 
most memorable. 



230 



TALES AND HISTOEIC SCENES. 



And call him not forsaken ! — thoughts untold 
Have lent his aspect calmness, and his tread 
Moves firmly to the shrine. What pomps unfold 
Within its precincts ! Isles and seas have shed 
Their gorgeous treasures there, around th' im- 
perial dead. 



'Tis a proud vision — that most regal pile 
Of ancient days ! The lamps are streaming bright 
From its rich altar, down each pillar'd aisle, 
Whose vista fades in dimness ; but the sight 
Is lost in splendours, as the wavering light 
Develops on those walls the thousand dyes 
Of the vein'd' marbles, which array their height, 
And from yon dome, the lode-star of all eyes, 1 
Pour such an iris-glow as emulates the skies. 



But gaze thou not on these ; though heaven's own 

hues 
In their soft clouds and radiant tracery vie — 
Though tints, of sun-born glory, may suffuse 
Arch, column, rich mosaic — pass thou by 
The stately tombs, where Eastern Csesars lie, 
Beneath their trophies : pause not here ; for know, 
A deeper source of all sublimity 
Lives in man's bosom, than the world can show 
In nature or in art — above, around, below. 

LXXVI. 

Turn thou to mark (though tears may dim thy gaze) 
The steel-clad group before yon altar-stone : 
Heed not though gems and gold around it blaze ; 
Those heads unhelm'd, those kneeling forms alone, 
Thusbow'd,lookglorioushere. The light is thrown 
Full from the shrine on one, a nation's lord, 
A sufferer ! but his task shall soon be done — 
E'en now, as Faith's mysterious cup is pour'd, 
See to that noble brow, peace, not of earth, re- 
stored ! 

LXXVII. 

The rite is o'er. The band of brethren part, 
Once — and hut once — to meet on earth again ! 

1 For a minute description of the marbles, jaspers, and 
porphyries, employed in the construction of St Sophia, see 
The Decline and Fall, &c, vol. vii. p. 120. 

2 The assault of the city took place at daybreak, and the 
Turks were strictly enjoined to advance in silence, which had 
also been commanded, on pain of death, during the preceding 
night. This circumstance is finely alluded to by Miss Baillie, 
in her tragedy of Constantine Palceologus : — 

" Silent shall be the march ; nor drum, nor trump, 
Nor clash of arms, shall to the watchful foe 



Each, in the strength of a collected heart, 

To dare what man may dare — and know 'tis vain ! 

The rite is o'er : and thou, majestic fane ! 

The glory is departed from thy brow ! — 

Be clothed with dust ! — the Christian's farewell 

strain 
Hath died within these walls ; thy Cross must bow, 
Thy kingly tombs be spoil'd, the golden shrines 

laid low ! 

LXXVIII. 

The streets grow still and lonely — and the star, 
The last bright lingerer in the path of morn, 
Gleams faint ; and in the very lap of war, 
As if young Hope with twilight's ray were born, 
Awhile the city sleeps : her throngs, o'erworn 
With fears and watchings, to their homes retire. 
Nor is the balmy air of dayspring torn 
With battle-sounds f the winds in sighs expire, 
And quiet broods in mists that veil the sunbeam's 
fire. 

LXXIX. 

The city sleeps ! Ay ! on the combat's eve, 
And by the scaffold's brink, and midst the swell 
Of angry seas, hath Nature won reprieve [well, 
Thus from her cares. The brave have slumber'd 
And e'en the fearful, in their dungeon cell, 
Chain'd between life and death. Such rest be 

thine, 
For conflicts wait thee still ! — yet who can tell, 
In that brief hour, how much of heaven may shine 
Full on thy spirit's dream ! — Sleep, weary Con- 
stantine ! 



Doth the blast rise 1 — the clouded east is red, 
As if a storm were gathering ; and I hear 
What seems like heavy rain-drops, or the tread, 
The soft and smother'd step of those that fear 
Surprise from ambush'd foes. Hark ! yet more near 
It comes, a many-toned and mingled sound ; 
A rustling, as of winds, where boughs are sere — 
A rolling, as of wheels that shake the ground 
From far ; a heavy rush, like seas that burst their 
bound ! 

Our near approach betray : silent and soft 
As the pard's velvet foot on Libya's sands, 
Slow stealing with crouch'd shoulders on her prey." 

Constantine Pal.'eoi.ogus, act iv. 

" The march and labour of thousands " must, however, as 
Gibbon observes, " have inevitably produced a strange con- 
fusion of discordant clamours, which reached the ears of the 
watchmen on the towers." 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



231 



LXXXI. 

Wake ! wake ! They come from sea and shore 

ascending 
In hosts your ramparts ! Arm ye for the day ! 
Who now may sleep amidst the thunders rending, 
Through tower and wall, a path for their array 1 
Hark ! how the trumpet cheers them to the prey, 
With its wild voice, to which the seas reply ; 
And the earth rocks beneath their engines' sway, 
And the far hills repeat their battle-cry, [sky ! 
Till that fierce tumult seems to shake the vaulted 

LXXXII. 

They fail not now, the generous band, that long 
Have ranged their swords around a falling throne ; 
Still in those fearless men the walls are strong, 
Hearts, such as rescue empires, are their own ! 
— Shall those high energies be vainly shown 1 
No ! from their towers th' invading tide is driven 
Back, like the Eed Sea waves, when God had blown 
With his strong winds ! The dark-brow'd ranks 
are riven i 1 [Heaven ! 

Shout, warriors of the Cross ! — for victory is of 

LXXXTTI. 

Stand firm ! Again the Crescent host is rushing, 
And the waves foam, as on the galleys sweep, 
With all their fires and darts, though blood is 

gushing 
Fast o'er their sides, as rivers to the deep. 
Stand firm ! — there yet is hope; th' ascent is steep, 
And from on high no shaft descends in vain. 
— But those that fall swell up the mangled heap, 
In the red moat, the dying and the slain, 
And o'er that fearful bridge the assailants mount 

again ! 

LXXXIV. 

Oh ! the dread mingling, in that awful hour, 
Of all terrific sounds ! — the savage tone 
Of the wild horn, the cannon's peal, the shower 
Of hissing darts, the crash of walls o'erthrown, 
The deep dull tambour's beat — man's voice alone 
Is there unheard ! Ye may not catch the cry 
Of trampled thousands — prayer, and shriek, and 
moan, 



1 " After a conflict of two hours, the Greeks still main- 
tained and preserved their advantage," says Gibbon. The 
strenuous exertions of the janizaries first turned the fortune 
of the day. 

2 " A circumstance that distinguishes the siege of Con- 
stantinople is the union of the ancient and modern artillery. 
The bullet and the battering-ram were directed against the 
same wall ; nor had the discovery of gunpowder superseded 



All drown'd, as that fierce hurricane sweeps by, 
But swell the unheeded sum earth pays for victory I 

LXXXV. 

War-clouds have wrapt the city ! — through their 

dun 
O'erloaded canopy, at times a blaze 
As of an angry storm-presaging sun, 
From the Greek fire shoots up ! 2 and lightning rays 
Flash, from the shock of sabres, through the haze, 
And glancing arrows cleave the dusky air ! 
— Ay ! this is in the compass of our gaze, 
But fearful things unknown, untold, are there — 
Workings of wrath and death, and anguish, and 

despair ! 

LXXXVI. 

Woe, shame and woe ! — A chief, a warrior flies, 
A red-cross champion, bleeding, wild, and pale ! 
— Oh God ! that Nature's passing agonies 
Thus, o'er the spark which dies not, should prevail ! 
Yes ! rend the arrow from thy shatter'd mail, 
And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa's fallen son ! 3 
Fly swifter yet ! the javelins pour as hail ! 
— But there are tortures which thou canst not 

shun : 
The spirit is their prey — thy pangs are but begun! 

LXXXVII. 

Oh, happy in their homes, the noble dead ! 
The seal is set on their majestic fame ; [shed, 
Earth has drunk deep the generous blood they 
Fate has no power to dim their stainless name ! 
Tliey may not, in one bitter moment, shame 
Long glorious years. From many a lofty stem 
Fall graceful flowers, and eagle hearts grow tame, 
And stars drop, fading from the diadem ; 
But the bright past is theirs — there is no change 
for them I 

LXXXVIII. 

Where art thou, Constantine 1 — where death is 

reaping 
His sevenfold harvest ! — where the stormy light, 
Fast as th' artillery's thunderbolts are sweeping, 
Throws meteor-bursts o'er battle's noonday-night ! 



the use of the liquid and inextinguishable fire. "—Decline and 
Fall, &c, vol. xii.. p. 213. 

3 " The immediate loss of Constantinople may be ascribed 
to the bullet, or arrow, which pierced the gauntlet of John 
Justiniani, (a Genoese chief.) The sight of his blood and 
exquisite pain appalled the courage of the chief, whose arms 
and counsels were the firmest rampart of the city."— Decline 
and Fall, &c. vol. xii. p. 229. 



232 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



Where the towers rock and crumble from their 

height, 
As to the earthquake, and the engines ply 
Like red Vesuvio ; and where human might 
Confronts all this, and still brave hearts beat high, 
While scimitars ring loud on shivering panoply. 

LXXXIX. 

Where art thou, Constantine 1 — where Christian 

blood 
Hath bathed the walls in torrents, and in vain ! 
Where faith and valour perish in the flood, 
Whose billows, rising o'er their bosoms, gain 
Dark strength each moment ; where the gallant 

slain 
Around the banner of the Cross lie strew'd 
Thick as the vine-leaves on th' autumnal plain ; 
Where all, save one high spirit, is subdued, 
And through the breach press on th' o'erwhelming 

multitude. 



Now is he battling midst a host alone, 

As the last cedar stems awhile the sway 

Of mountain storms, whose fury hath o'erthrown 

Its forest-brethren in their green array ! 

And he hath cast his purple robe away, 

With its imperial bearings, that his sword 

An iron ransom from the chain may pay, 

And win, what haply fate may yet accord, 

A soldier's death — the all now left an empire's lord ! 



Search for him now where bloodiest lie the files 
Which once were men, the faithful and the brave ! 
Search for him now where loftiest rise the piles 
Of shatter'd helms and shields which could not save, 
And crests and banners never more to wave 
In the free winds of heaven ! He is of those 
O'er whom the host may rush, the tempest rave, 
And the steeds trample, and the spearmen close, 
Yet wake them not ! — so deep their long and last 
repose ! 

xcn. 
Woe to the vanquish'd ! — thus it hath been still 
Since Time's first march ! Hark, hark, a people's 

cry! 
Ay, now the conquerors in the streets fulfil 

1 Mohammed II., on entering, after his victory, the palace 
of the Byzantine emperors, was strongly impressed with the 
silence and desolation which reigned within its precincts. 
" A melancholy reflection on the vicissitudes of human 
greatness forced itself on his mind, and he repeated an 



Their task of wrath ! In vain the victims fly ; 
Hark ! now each piercing tone of agony 
Blends in the city's shriek ! The lot is cast. 
Slaves ! 'twas your choice thus, rather thus, to die, 
Than where the warrior's blood flows warm and 
fast, [the last ! 

And roused and mighty hearts beat proudly to 

XCTII. 

Oh ! well doth freedom battle ! Men have made, 
E'en midst their blazing roofs, a noble stand, 
And on the floors, where once their children play'd, 
And by the hearths, round which their household 

band 
At evening met ; ay, struggling hand to hand, 
Within the very chambers of their sleep, 
There have they taught the spoilers of the land 
In chainless hearts what fiery strength lies deep, 
To guard free homes ! But ye ! — kneel, tremblers ! 

kneel, and weep ! 



'Tis eve — the storm hath died, the valiant rest 
Low on their shields ; the day's fierce work is done, 
And blood-stain'd seas and burning towers attest 
Its fearful deeds. An empire's race is run ! 
Sad, midst his glory, looks the parting sun 
Upon the captive city. Hark ! a swell 
(Meet to proclaim barbaric war-fields won) 
Of fierce triumphal sounds, that wildly tell 
The Soldan comes within the Caesars' halls to dwell ! 



Yes ! with the peal of cymbal and of gong, 
He comes : the Moslem treads those ancient halls! 
But all is stillness there, as death had long 
Been lord alone within those gorgeous walls. 
And half that silence of the grave appals [hour, 
The conqueror's heart. Ay! thus, with triumph's 
Still comes the boding whisper, which recalls 
A thought of those impervious clouds that lower 
O'er grandeur's path, a sense of some far mightier 
Power ! 



" The owl upon Afrasiab's towers hath sung 
Her watch-song, 1 and around th' imperial throne 
The spider weaves his web ! " — Still darkly hung 
That verse of omen, as a prophet's tone, 

elegant distich of Persian poetry : ' The spider has wove his 
web in the imperial palace, and the owl hath sung her watch- 
song on the towers of Afrasiab.'" — Decline and Fall, &c, 
vol. xii. p. 240. 



THE LAST CONSTANTINE. 



233 



O'er his flush'd spirit. Years on years have flown 
To prove its truth : kings pile their domes in air, 
That the coil'd snake may bask on sculptured stone, 
And nations clear the forest, to prepare [there ! 
For the wild fox and wolf more stately dwellings 

xcvu. 
But thou ! that on thy ramparts proudly dying, 
As a crown'd leader in such hours should die, 
Upon thy pyre of shiver'd spears art lying, 
With the heavens o'er thee for a canopy, 
And banners for thy shroud ! No tear, no sigh, 
Shall mingle with thy dirge ; for thou art now 
Beyond vicissitude ! Lo ! rear'd on high, 
The Crescent blazes, while the Cross must bow — 
But where no change can reach, there, Constantine, 
art thou ! 

XCVIIL 

" After life's fitful fever thou sleep'st well ! " 
"We may not mourn thee ! Sceptred chiefs, from 

whom 
The earth received her destiny, and fell 
Before them trembling — to a sterner doom 
Have oft been call'd. For them the dungeon's 

gloom, 
With its cold starless midnight, hath been made 
More fearful darkness, where, as in a tomb, 
Without a tomb's repose, the chain hath weigh'd 
Their very soul to dust, with each high power 

decay'd. 



Or in the eye of thousands they have stood, 
To meet the stroke of death; but not like thee ! 
From bonds and scaffolds hath appeal'd^/ieir blood, 
But thou didst fall unfetter' d, arm'd, and free, 
And kingly to the last ! And if it be, 
That from the viewless world, whose marvels none 
Keturn to tell, a spirit's eye can see 
The things of earth : still may'st thou hail the sun, 
Which o'er thy land shall dawn, when freedom's 
fight is won ! 



And the hour comes, in storm ! A light is glancing 
Far through the forest god's Arcadian shades ! 
— 'Tis not the moonbeam, tremulously dancing, 
Where lone Alpheus bathes his haunted glades. 



1 One of the ceremonies by which the battle of Platsea was 
annually commemorated was, to crown with wine a cup 
called the Bowl of Liberty, which was afterwards poured 
forth in libation. 



A murmur, gathering power, the air pervades, 
Round dark Cithseron and by Delphi's steep ; 
— 'Tis not the song and lyre of Grecian maids, 
Nor pastoral reed that lulls the vales to sleep, 
Nor yet the rustling pines, nor yet the sounding 



Arms glitter on the mountains, which of old 
Awoke to freedom's first heroic strain, 
And by the streams, once crimson, as they roll'd 
The Persian helm and standard to the main ; 
And the blue waves of Salamis again 
Thrill to the trumpet ; and the tombs reply, 
With their ten thousand echoes, from each plain, 
Far as Platsea's, where the mighty lie, 
Who crown'd so proudly there the bowl of 
liberty I 1 



Bright land, with glory mantled o'er by song ! 
Land of the vision-peopled hills, and streams, 
And fountains, whose deserted banks along 
Still the soft air with inspiration teems ; 
Land of the graves, whose dwellers shall be themes 
To verse for ever ; and of ruin'd shrines, 
That scarce look desolate beneath such beams, 
As bathe in gold thine ancient rocks and pines 1 
— When shall thy sons repose in peace beneath 
their vines 1 



Thou wert not made for bonds, nor shame, nor 

fear ! 
— Do the hoar oaks and dark-green laurels wave 
O'er Mantinea's earth 1 — doth Pindus rear 
His snows, the sunbeam and the storm to brave 1 ? 
And is there yet on Marathon a grave 1 
And doth Eurotas lead his silvery line 
By Sparta's ruins 1 And shall man, a slave, 
Bow'd to the dust, amid such scenes repine ? 
— If e'er a soil was mark'd for freedom's step, 

'tis thine ! 

civ. 
Wash from that soil the stains with battle-showers. 
— Beneath Sophia's dome the Moslem prays, 
The Crescent gleams amidst the olive-bowers, 
In the Comneni's halls the Tartar sways : 2 



2 The Comneni were amongst the most distinguished of the 
families who filled the Byzantine throne in the declining 
years of the Eastern Empire. 



234 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



But not for long ! — the spirit of those days, 
When the three hundred made their funeral pile 
Of Asia's dead, is kindling, like the rays 
Of thy rejoicing sun, when first his smile 
Warms the Parnassian rock, and gilds the Delian 
isle. 



cv. 
If then 'tis given thee to arise in might, 
Trampling the scourge, and dashing down the 

chain, 
Pure be thy triumphs, as thy name is bright ! 
The cross of victory should not know a stain ! 
So may that faith once more supremely reign, 
Through which we lift our spirits from the dust ! 
And deem not, e'en when virtue dies in vain, 
She dies forsaken ; but repose our trust 
On Him whose ways are dark, unsearchable — but 

just. 

ANNOTATION ON "THE LAST CONSTANTINE." 

[It may seem necessary to mention that "The Last Constan- 
tine" first appeared in a volume (Murray, 1823) along with 
" Belshazzar's Feast," the " Siege of Valencia," and some 
lyrical miscellanies. 

" The present publication appears to us, (Dr Morehead in 
Constable's Magazine, Sept. 1823,) in every respect superior 
to any thing Mrs Hemans has yet written : more powerful 
in particular passages — more interesting in the narrative 
part — as pathetic and delicate in the reflective — as elabo- 
rately faultless in its versification — as copious in imagery _ 
Of the longer poems, 'The Last Constantine' is our favourite. 
The leading features of Constantine's charac- 
ter seem to be taken from the unequal, but, on the whole, 
admirable play of Constantine Palceologus, by the gifted rival 
of our authoress, Joanna Baillie ; and the picture of that 
enduring and Christian courage which, in the midst of a 
ruined city and a fallen state, sustained the last of the 
Caesars, when all earthly hope and help had failed him, is 
eminently touching and poetical. The following stanzas 
appear to us particularly beautiful : — 

' Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth, 
Sounds in the air, of battle, ' etc. 

The following stanzas, too, in which the leading idea of Con- 
stantine's character is still more fully brought out, are like- 
wise excellent : — 

' It was a sad and solemn task to hold 
Their midnight watch on that beleaguer'd wall,' etc. 

These are splendid passages, justly conceived, admirably ex- 
pressed, full of eloquence and melody ; and the poem con- 
tains many others equally beautiful. As we have already 
hinted, the story might have been better told — or rather, 
there is scarcely any story at all ; but the reader is borne 
down the stream of pensive reflection so gently, and so easily, 
that he scarcely perceives the want of it."] 



THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS; 

OR, THE MEETING ON THE FIELD OF 
GRUTLL 

[It was in the year 1308 that the Swiss rose against the 
tyranny of the bailiffs appointed over them by Albert of 
Austria. The field called the Grutli, at the foot of the Seelis- 
berg, and near the boundaries of Uri and Unterwalden, was 
fixed upon by three spirited yoemen, Walter Furst, (the father- 
in-law of Willam Tell,) Werner Stauffacher, and Erni (or 
Arnold) Melchthal, as their place of meeting to deliberate on 
the accomplishment of their projects. 

" Hither came Furst and Melchthal, along secret paths over 
the heights, and Stauffacher in his boat across the Lake of 
the Four Cantons. On the night preceding the 11th of 
November 1307, they met here, each with ten associates, 
men of approved worth ; and while at this solemn hour they 
were wrapt in the contemplation that on their success depended 
the fate of their whole posterity, Werner, Walter, and 
Arnold held up their hands to heaven, and in the name of 
the Almighty, who has created man to an inalienable degree 
of freedom, swore jointly and strenuously to defend that free- 
dom. The thirty associates heard the oath with awe ; and 
with uplifted hands attested the same God, and all his saints, 
that they were firmly bent on offering up their lives for the 
defence of their injured liberty. They then calmly agreed on 
their future proceedings, and for the present each returned 
to his hamlet." — Planta's History of the Helvetic Confe- 
deracy. 

On the first day of the year 1308, they succeeded in throw- 
ing off the Austrian yoke, and " it is well attested," says the 
same author, " that not one drop of blood was shed on this 
memorable occasion, nor had one proprietor to lament the 
loss of a claim, a privilege, or an inch of land. The Swiss 
met on the succeeding Sabbath, and once more confirmed by 
oath their ancient, and (as they fondly named it) their per- 
petual league."] 



'Twas night upon the Alps. The Senn's wild horn, 1 
Like a wind's voice, had pour'd its last long tone, 
Whose pealing echoes, through the larch-woods 

borne, 
To the low cabins of the glens made known 
That welcome steps were nigh. The flocks had 

gone 
By cliff and pine bridge to their place of rest ; 
The chamois slumber' d, for the chase was done ; 
His cavern-bed of moss the hunter press'd, 
And the rock-eagle couch'd high on his cloudy 

nest. 



Did the land sleep 1 The woodman's axe had ceased 
Its ringing notes upon the beech and plane ; 
The grapes were gather'd in ; the vintage feast 
"Was closed upon the hills, the reaper's strain 
Hush'd by the streams ; the year was in its wane, 

1 Senn, the name given to a herdsman among the Swiss 
Alps. 



THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS. 



235 



The night in its mid watch — it was a time 
E'en mark'd and hallow'd unto slumber's reign ; 
But thoughts were stirring, restless and sublime, 
And o'er his white Alps moved the spirit of the 
clime. 



For there, where snows, in crowning glory spread, 
High and unmark'd by mortal footstep lay ; 
And there, where torrents, mid the ice-caves fed, 
Burst in their joy of light and sound away ; 
And there, where freedom, as in scornful play, 
Had hung man's dwellings midst the realms of 

air, 
O'er cliffs the very birthplace of the day — 
Oh ! who would dream that tyranny could dare 
To lay her withering hand on God's bright works 

e'en there 1 



Yet thus it was. Amidst the fleet streams gushing 
To bring down rainbows o'er their sparry cell, 
And the glad heights, through mist and tempest 

rushing 
Up where the sun's red fire-glance earliest fell, 
And the fresh pastures where the herd's sweet 

bell 
Becall'd such life as Eastern patriarchs led ; 
There peasant men their free thoughts might 

not tell 
Save in the hour of shadows and of dread, 
And hollow sounds that wake to Guilt's dull 

stealthy tread. 



But in a land of happy shepherd homes, 
On its green hills in quiet joy reclining, 
With their bright hearth-fires, midst the twilight 

glooms, [shining — 

From bowery lattice through the fir-woods 
A land of legends and wild songs, entwining 
Their memory with all memories loved and blest — 
In such a land there dwells a power, combining 
The strength of many a calm but fearless breast ; 
And woe to him who breaks the Sabbath of its 

rest ! 



A sound went up — the wave's dark sleep was 

broken — 
On Uri's lake was heard a midnight oar — 
Of man's brief course a troubled moment's token 
Th' eternal waters to their barriers bore ; 
And then their gloom a flashing image wore 



Of torch-fires streaming out o'er crag and wood, 
And the wild falcon's wing was heard to soar 
In startled haste — and by that moonlight flood, 
A band of patriot men on Grutli's verdure stood. 

VII. 

They stood in arms : the wolf-spear and the bow 
Had waged their war on things of mountain 
race ; [foe 1 

Might not their swift stroke reach a mail-clad 
— Strong hands in harvest, daring feet in chase, 
True hearts in fight, were gather'd on that place 
Of secret council. Not for fame or spoil 
So met those men in Heaven's majestic face : 
To guard free hearths they rose, the sons of toil, 
The hunter of the rocks, the tiller of the soil. 



O'er their low pastoral valleys might the tide 
Of years have flow'd, and still, from sire to son, 
Their names and records on the green earth died, 
As cottage lamps, expiring one by one 
In the dim glades, when midnight hath begun 
To hush all sound. But silent on its height, 
The snow mass, full of death, while ages run 
Their course, may slumber, bathed in rosy light, 
Till some rash voice or step disturb its brooding 
might. 



So were they roused. Th' invading step had pass'd 
Their cabin thresholds, and the lowly door, 
Which well had stood against the Fohnwind's 

blast, 1 
Could bar Oppression from their home no more. 
Why, what had she to do where all things wore 
Wild grandeur's impress? In the storm's free way, 
How dared she lift her pageant crest before 
Th' enduring and magnificent array 
Of sovereign Alps, that wing'd their eagles with 

the day 1 



This might not long be borne : the tameless hills 
Have voices from the cave and cataract swelling, 
Fraught with His name whose awful presence fills 
Their deep lone places, and for ever telling 
That He hath made man free ! and they, whose 

dwelling 
Was in those ancient fastnesses, gave ear ; 
The weight of sufferance from their hearts repel- 
ling, 

1 Fohnwind, the south-east wind, which frequently lays 
waste the country before it. 



236 



TALES AND HISTORIC SCENES. 



They rose — the forester — the mountaineer — 
Oh ! what hath earth more strong than the good 
peasant spear 1 



Sacred be Grutli's field! Their vigil keeping 
Through many a blue and starry summer night — 
There, while the sons of happier lands were sleep- 
ing, 
Had those brave Switzers met ; and in the sight 
Of the just God, who pours forth burning might 
To gird the oppress'd, had given their deep 

thoughts way, 
And braced their spirits for the patriot fight, 
With lovely images of homes that lay [spray. 
Bower'd midst the rustling pines, or by the torrent 



Now had endurance reach'd its bounds ! They 

came 
With courage set in each bright earnest eye, 
The day, the signal, and the hour to name, 
When they should gather on their hills to die, 
Or shake the glaciers with their joyous cry 
For the land's freedom. 'Twas a scene combining 
All glory in itself — the solemn sky, 
The stars, the waves then soften d light enshrining, 
And man's high soul supreme o'er mighty Nature 

shining. 



Calmly they stood, and with collected mien, 
Breathing their souls in voices firm but low — 
As if the spirit of the hour and scene, [flow, 

With the woods' whisper aud the waves' sweet 
Had temper'd in their thoughtful hearts the glow 
Of all indignant feeling. To the breath 
Of Dorian flute, and lyre-note soft and slow, 
E'en thus of old, the Spartan from its sheath 
Drew his devoted sword, and girt himself for death. 



And three, that seem'd as chieftains of the band, 
Were gather'd in the midst on that lone shore 
By Uri's lake. A father of the land, 1 
One on his brow the silent record wore 
Of many days, whose shadows had pass'd o'er 
His path among the hills, and quench'd the dreams 
Of youth with sorrow. Yet from memory's lore 
Still his life's evening drew its loveliest gleams, 
For he had walk'd with God, beside the mountain 
streams. 

1 Walter Furst, the father-in-law of Tell. 

2 Werner Stauffacher, who had been urged by his wife to 



And his gray hairs, in happier times, might well 
To their last pillow silently have gone, 
As melts a wreath of snow. But who shall tell 
How life may task the spirit 1 He was one 
Who from its morn a freeman's work had done, 
And reap'd his harvest, and his vintage press' d, 
Fearless of wrong ; and now, at set of sun, 
He bov/d not to his years, for on the breast 
Of a still chainless land he deem'd it much to 
rest. 



But for such holy rest strong hands must toil, 
Strong hearts endure ! By that pale elder's side, 
Stood one that seem'd a monarch of the soil, 
Serene and stately in his manhood's pride — 
Werner, 2 the brave and true ! If men have died 
Their hearths and shrines inviolate to keep, 
He was a mate for such. The voice that cried 
Within his breast, " Arise ! " came still and deep 
From his far home, that smiled e'en then in moon- 
light sleep. 



It was a home to die for ! As it rose 
Through its vine foliage, sending forth a sound 
Of mirthful childhood, o'er the green repose 
And laughing sunshine of the pastures round ; 
And he, whose life to that sweet spot was bound, 
Raised unto Heaven a glad yet thoughtful eye, 
And set his free step firmer on the ground, 
When o'er his soul its melodies went by, 
As, through some Alpine pass, a breeze of Italy. 

XVIII. 

But who was he that on his hunting-spear 
Lean'd, with a prouder and more fiery bearing ? 
His was a brow for tyrant hearts to fear, 
Within the shadow of its dark locks wearing 
That which they may not tame — a soul declaring 
War against earth's oppressors. Midst that throng 
Of other mould he seem'd, and loftier daring, 
One whose blood swept high impulses along, 
One that should pass, and leave a name for war- 
like song — 



A memory on the mountains ! — one to stand, 
When the hills echo'd with the deepening swell 
Of hostile trumpets, foremost for the land, 
And in some rock defile, or savage dell, 

rouse and unite his countrymen for the deliverance of Swit- 
zerland. 



THE LEAGUE OF THE ALPS. 



237 



Array her peasant children to repel 

Th' invader, sending arrows for his chains ! 

Ay, one to fold around him, as he fell, 

Her banner with a smile — for through his veins 

The joy of danger flow'd, as torrents to the plains. 



There was at times a wildness in the light 
Of his quick-flashing eye ; a something born 
Of the free Alps, and beautifully bright, 
And proud, and tameless, laughing fear to scorn ! 
It well might be ! — Young Erni's step had worn 1 
The mantling snows on their most regal steeps, 
And track'd the lynx above the clouds of morn, 
And follow'd where the flying chamois leaps 
I Across the dark blue rifts, th' unfathom'd glacier 



He was a creature of the Alpine sky, 
A being whose bright spirit had been fed 
Midst the crown'd heights of joy and liberty, 
And thoughts of power. He knew each path 

which led 
To the rock's treasure caves, whose crystal shed 
Soft light o'er secret fountains. At the tone 
Of his loud horn the Lammer-Geyer 2 had spread 
A startled wing — for oft that peal had blown 
Where the free cataract's voice was wont to sound 

alone. 



His step had track'd the waste, his soul had stirr'd 

The ancient solitudes — his voice had told 

Of wrongs to call down heaven. 3 That tale was 

heard 
In Hash's dales, and where the shepherds' fold 
Their flocks in dark ravine and craggy hold 
On the bleak Oberland ; and where the light 
Of day's last footsteps bathes in burning gold 
Great Eighi's cliffs ; and where Mount Pilate's 

height 
Casts o'er his glassy lake the darkness of his might 

XXIII. 

Nor was it heard in vain. There all things press 
High thoughts on man. The fearless hunterpass'd, 
-And, from the bosom of the wilderness, 
There leapt a spirit and a power to cast 
The weight of bondage down — and bright and fast, 

1 Erni, Arnold Melchthal. 

2 The Lammer-Geyer, the largest kind of Alpine eagle. 

3 The eyes of his aged father had been put out by the orders 
of the Austrian governor. 



As the clear waters, joyously and free, 
Burst from the desert rock, it rush'd at last, 
Through the far valleys ; till the patriot three 
Thus with their brethren stood, beside the Forest- 
Sea. 4 A 

XXIV. 

They link'd their hands, they pledged their stain- 
less faith 
In the dread presence of attesting Heaven, 
They bound their hearts to suffering and to death, 
With the severe and solemn transport given 
To bless such vows. How nobly man had striven, 
How man might strive, and vainly strive, they knew, 
And call'd upon their God, whose arm had riven 
The crest of many a tyrant, since He blew 
The foaming sea-wave on, and Egypt's might o'er- 
threw. 

XXV. 

They knelt, and rose in strength. The valleys lay 
Still in their dimness, but the peaks which darted 
Into the bright mid air, had caught from day 
A flush of fire, when those true Switzers parted, 
Each to his glen or forest, steadfast-hearted, 
And full of hope. Not many suns had worn 
Their setting glory, ere from slumber started 
Ten thousand voices, of the mountains born — 
So far was heard the blast of freedom's echoing horn ! 



The ice-vaults trembled, when that peal came 

rending 
The frozen stillness which around them hung ; 
From cliff to cliff the avalanche descending 
Gave answer, till the sky's blue hollow rung ; 
And the flame-signals through the midnight sprung 
From the Surennen rocks, like banners streaming 
To the far Seelisberg ; whence light was flung 
On Grutli's field, till all the red lake gleaming 
Shone out, a meteor-heaven in its wild splendour 

seeming. 



And the winds toss'd each summit's blazing crest, 
As a host's plumage; and the giant pines, 
Fell'd where they waved o'er crag and eagle's nest, 
Heap'd up the flames. The clouds grew fiery signs, 
As o'er a city's burning towers and shrines, 
Reddening the distance. Wine-cups, crown'd and 

bright, 
In Werner's dwelling flow'd; through leafless vines 



4 Forest-Sea — the lake of 
so called. 



Four Cantons is frequently 



238 



SONGS OF THE CID.. 



From Walter's hearth stream'd forth the festive 

light, [that night. 

And Erni's blind old sire gave thanks to heaven 

XXVIII. 

Then on the silence of the snows there lay 
A Sabbath's qniet sunshine — and its bell 
Fill'd the hush'd air awhile, with lonely sway; 



For the stream's voice was chain'd by winter's spell, 
The deep wood-sounds had ceased. But rock and 

dell 
Rang forth, ere long, when strains of jubilee 
Peal'd from the mountain churches, with a swell 
Of praise to Him who stills the raging sea — 
For now the strife was closed, the glorious Alps 

were free ! 



SONGS OF THE CID. 1 



THE CID'S DEPARTURE INTO EXILE. 

With sixty knights in his gallant train, 
Went forth the Campeador of Spain ; 
For wild sierras and plains afar, 
He left the lands of his own Bivar. 2 

To march o'er field, and to watch in tent, 
From his home in good Castile he went ; 
To the wasting siege and the battle's van, 
— For the noble Cid was a banish'd man ! 

Through his olive-woods the morn-breeze play'd, 
And his native streams wild music made, 
And clear in the sunshine his vineyards lay, 
When for march and combat he took his way. 

With a thoughtful spirit his way he took, 
And he turn'd his steed for a parting look, 
For a parting look at his own fair towers, 
— Oh ! the exile's heart hath weary hours ! 

The pennons were spread, and the band array'd, 
But the Cid at the threshold a moment stay'd — 
It was but a moment ; the halls were lone, 
And the gates of his dwelling all open thrown. 

There was not a steed in the empty stall, 
Nor a spear nor a cloak on the naked wall, 
Nor a hawk on the perch, nor a seat at the door, 
Nor the sound of a step on the hollow floor. 3 

1 These ballads are not translations from the Spanish, but 
are founded upon some of the " wild and wonderful" tradi- 
tions preserved in the romances of that language, and the 
ancient poem of the Cid. 

2 Bivar, the supposed birthplace of the Cid, was a castle, 
about two leagues from Burgos. 

8 " Tornaba la cabeza, e estabalos catando : 
Vio puertas abiertas, e uzos sin cafiados, 



Then a dim tear swell'd to the warrior's eye, 
As the voice of his native groves went by ; 
And he said — " My foemen their wish have won : 
Now the will of God be in all things done !" 

But the trumpet blew, with its note of cheer, 
And the winds of the morning swept off the tear, 
And the fields of his glory lay distant far, 
— He is gone from the towers of his own Bivar ! 



THE CID'S DEATHBED. 

It was an hour of grief and fear 

Within Valencia's walls, 
When the blue spring-heaven lay still and clear 

Above her marble halls. 

There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes, 

And steps of hurrying feet, 
Where the Zambra's 4 notes were wont to rise, 

Along the sunny street. 

It was an hour of fear and grief 

On bright Valencia's shore, 
For Death was busy with her chief, 

The noble Campeador. 

The Moor-king's barks were on the deep, 

With sounds and signs of war; 
But the Cid was passing to his sleep, 

In the silent Alcazar. 



Alcandaras vacias, sin pielles e sin mantos : 
E sin falcones, e sin adtores mudados. 
Sospird niio Cid." Poem of the Cid. 

4 The Zambra, a Moorish dance. When Valencia was 
taken by the Cid, many of the Moorish families chose to 
remain there, and reside under his government. 



SONGS OF THE CID. 239 


No moan was heard through the towers of state, 


Now wave, ye banners of many a fight ! 


No weeper's aspect seen, 


As the fresh wind o'er you sweeps ; 


But by the couch Ximena sate, 


The wind and the banners fall hush'd as night : 


With pale yet steadfast mien. 1 


The Campeador — he sleeps ! 


Stillness was round the leader's bed, 


Sound the battle-horn on the breeze of morn, 


"Warriors stood mournful nigh, 


And swell out the trumpet's blast, 


And banners, o'er his glorious head, 


Till the notes prevail o'er the voice of wail, 


Were drooping heavily. 


For the noble Cid hath pass'd ! 


And feeble grew the conquering hand, 




And cold the valiant breast ; 




He had fought the battles of the land, 




And his hour was come to rest. 


THE CID'S FUNERAL PROCESSION. 


What said the Ruler of the field 1 


The Moor had beleaguer'd Valencia's towers, 


— His voice is faint and low ; 


And lances gleam'd up through her citron bowers, 


The breeze that creeps o'er his lance and shield 


And the tents of the desert had girt her plain, 


Hath louder accents now. 


And camels were trampling the vines of Spain ; 




For the Cid was gone to rest. 


" Raise ye no cry, and let no moan 




Be made when I depart ; 


There were men from wilds where the death- wind 


The Moor must hear no dirge's tone ; 


sweeps, 


Be ye of mighty heart ! 


There were spears from hills where the lion sleeps, 




There were bows from sands where the ostrich 


" Let the cymbal-clash and the trumpet-strain 


runs, 


From your walls ring far and shrill; 


For the shrill horn of Afric had call'd her sons 


And fear ye not, for the saints of Spain 


To the battles of the West. 


Shall grant you victory still. 






The midnight bell, o'er the dim seas heard, 


" And gird my form with mail-array, 


Like the roar of waters, the air had stirr'd ; 


And set me on my steed ; 


The stars were shining o'er tower and wave, 


So go ye forth on your funeral-way, 


And the camp lay hush'd as a wizard's cave ; 


And God shall give you speed. 


But the Christians woke that night. 


" Go with the dead in the front of war, 


They rear'd the Cid on his barded steed, 


All arm'd with sword and helm, 2 


Like a warrior mail'd for the hour of need, 


And march by the camp of King Bucar, 


And they fix'd the sword in the cold right hand 


For the good Castilian realm. 


Which had fought so well for his father's land, 




And the shield from his neck hung bright. 


" And let me slumber in the soil 




Which gave my fathers birth ; 


There was arming heard in Valencia's halls, 


I have closed my day of battle-toil, 


There was vigil kept on the rampart walls ; 


And my course is done on earth." 


Stars had not faded nor clouds turn'd red, 




When the knights had girded the noble dead, 


— Now wave, ye glorious banners ! wave ! 


And the burial train moved out. 


Through the lattice a wind sweeps by, 




And the arms, o'er the deathbed of the brave, 


With a measured pace, as the pace of one, 


Send forth a hollow sigh. 


Was the still death-march of the host begun ; 


1 The calm fortitude of Ximena is frequently alluded to in 


Tremolando estan al viento 


the romances. 


Y lloran aunque no hablan," &c. 




Herder's translation of these romances (Der Cid, nach 


2 " Banderas antiguas, tristes 


Spanischen Romanzen besungen) are remarkable for their 


De victorias un tiempo amadas, 


spirit and scrupulous fidelity. 



240 



SONGS OF THE CID. 



With a silent step went the cuirass'd bands, 
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands ; 
And they gave no battle-shout. 

When the first went forth, it was midnight deep, 
In heaven was the moon, in the camp was sleep ; 
When the last through the city's gates had gone, 
O'er tent and rampart the bright day shone, 
With a sun-burst from the sea. 

There were knights five hundred went arm'd before, 
And Bermudez the Cid's green standard bore j 1 
To its last fair field, with the break of morn, 
Was the glorious banner in silence borne, 
On the glad wind streaming free. 

And the Campeador came stately then, 
Like a leader circled with steel-clad men ! 
The helmet was down o'er the face of the dead, 
But his steed went proud, by a warrior led, 
For he knew that the Cid was there. 

He was there, the Cid, with his own good sword, 
And Ximena following her noble lord ; 
Her eye was solemn, her step was slow, 
But there rose not a sound of war or woe, 
Not a whisper on the air. 

The halls in Valencia were still and lone, 
The churches were empty, the masses done ; 
There was not a voice through the wide streets far, 
Nor a footfall heard in the Alcazar, 
— So the burial-train moved out. 

With a measured pace, as the pace of one, 
Was the still death-march of the host begun ; 
With a silent step went the cuirass'd bands, 
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands ; 
And they gave no battle-shout. 

But the deep hills peal'd with a cry ere long, 
When the Christians burst on the Paynim throng ! 
— With a sudden flash of the lance and spear, 
And a charge of the war-steed in full career, 
It was Alvar Fanez came ! 2 



1 " And while they stood there, they saw the Cid Ruy Diez 
coming up with three hundred knights ; for he had not been 
in the battle, and they knew his green pennon." — Southey's 
Chronicles of the Cid. 

2 Alvar Fanez Minaya, one of the Cid's most distinguished 
warriors. 

3 A Moorish Amazon, who, with a band of female war- 
riors, accompanied Bang Bucar from Africa. Her arrows 



He that was wrapt with no funeral shroud, 
Had pass'd before like a threatening cloud ! 
And the storm rush'd down on the tented plain, 
And the Archer-Queen, 3 with her bands, lay 
slain ; 
For the Cid upheld his fame. 

Then a terror fell on the King Bucar, 
And the Libyan kings who had join'd his war ; 
And their hearts grew heavy, and died away, 
And their hands could not wield an assagay, 
For the dreadful things they saw ! 

For it seem'd where Minaya his onset made, 
There were seventy thousand knights array'd, 
All white as the snow on Nevada's steep, 
And they came like the foam of a roaring deep ; 
— 'Twas a sight of fear and awe ! 

And the crested form of a warrior tall, 
With a sword of fire, went before them all ; 
With a sword of fire and a banner pale, 
And a blood-red cross on his shadowy mail ; 
He rode in the battle's van ! 

There was fear in the path of his dim white 

horse, 
There was death in the giant-warrior's course ! 
Where his banner' stream'd with its ghostly light, 
Where his sword blazed out, there was hurrying 

flight— 
For it seem'd not the sword of man ! 

The field and the river grew darkly red, 
As the kings and leaders of Afric fled ; 
There was work for the men of the Cid that day ! 
— They were weary at eve, when they ceased to 
slay, 
As reapers whose task is done ! 

The kings and the leaders of Afric fled ! 
The sails of their galleys in haste were spread ; 
But the sea had its share of the Paynim slain, 
And the bow of the desert was broke in Spain. 
— So the Cid to his grave pass'd on ! 



were so unerring, that she obtained the name of the Star of 
Archers. 

" Una Mora muy gallarda, 
Gran maestra en el tirar, 
Con Saetas del Aljava, 
De los arcos de Turquia 
Estrella era nombrada, 
Por la destreza que avia 
En el herir de la Xara." 



GREEK SONGS. 241 


THE CID'S RISING. 


And the towers, as with a sweeping blast, 




Rock'd to the stormy clang ! 


'Twas the deep mid-watch of the silent night, 


But the march of the viewless train 


And Leon in slumber lay, 


Went on to a royal fane, 


When a sound went forth in rushing might, 


Where a priest his night-hymn sang. 


Like an army on its way ! 1 




In the stillness of the hour 


There was knocking that shook the marble floor, 


When the dreams of sleep have power, 


And a voice at the gate, which said — 


And men forget the day. 


" That the Cid Ruy Diez, the Campeador, 




Was there in his arms array'd ; 


Through the dark and lonely streets it went, 


And that with him, from the tomb, 


Till the slumberers woke in dread ; — 


Had the Count Gonzalez come 


The sound of a passing armament, 


With a host, uprisen to aid ! 


With the charger's stony tread. 




There was heard no trumpet's peal, 


" And they came for the buried king that lay 


But the heavy tramp of steel, 


At rest in that ancient fane ; 


As a host's to combat led. 


For he must be arm'd on the battle-day, 




With them to deliver Spain ! " 


Through the dark and lonely streets it pass'd, 


— Then the march went sounding on, 


And the hollow pavement rang, 


And the Moors by noontide sun 


1 See Southey's Chronicle of the Cid, p. 352. 


Were dust on Tolosa's plain. 


GEEEK 


SONGS. . 


THE STORM OF DELPHI. 1 


But a gloom fell o'er their way, 




And a heavy moan went by ! 


Far through the Delphian shades 


A moan, yet not like the wind's low swell, 


An Eastern trumpet rung ! 


'When its voice grows wild amidst cave and dell, 


And the startled eagle rush'd on high, 


But a mortal murmur of dismay, 


With a sounding flight through the fiery sky; 


Or a warrior's dying sigh ! 


And banners, o'er the shadowy glades, 




To the sweeping winds were flung. 


A gloom fell o'er their way ! 




'Twas not the shadow cast 


Banners, with deep-red gold 


By the dark pine-boughs, as they cross'd the blue 


All waving as a flame, 


Of the Grecian heavens with their solemn hue ; 


And a fitful glance from the bright spear-head 


The air was fill'd with a mightier sway — 


On the dim wood-paths of the mountain shed, 


But on the spearmen pass'd ! 


And a peal of Asia's war-notes told 




That in arms the Persian came. 


And hollow to their tread 




Came the echoes of the ground ; 


He came with starry gems 


And banners droop'd, as with dews o'erborne, 


On his quiver and his crest ; 


And the wailing blast of the battle-horn 


With starry gems, at whose heart the day 


Had an alter'd cadence, dull and dead, 


Of the cloudless Orient burning lay, 


Of strange foreboding sound. 


And they cast a gleam on the laurel-stems, 




As onward his thousands press'd. 


But they blew a louder strain, 




When the steep defiles were pass'd ! 




And afar the crown'd Parnassus rose, 


1 See the account cited from Herodotus, in Mitford's Greece. 


To shine through heaven with his radiant snows, 



242 



GREEK SONGS. 



And in golden light the Delphian fane 
Before them stood at last ! 

In golden light it stood, 

Midst the laurels gleaming lone ; 
For the Sun-god yet, with a lovely smile, 
O'er its graceful pillars look'd awhile, 

Though the stormy shade on cliff and wood 
Grew deep round its mountain-throne. 

And the Persians gave a shout ! 
But the marble walls replied 
With a clash of steel and a sullen roar 
Like heavy wheels on the ocean-shore, 
And a savage trumpet's note peal'd out, 
Till their hearts for terror died ! 

On the armour of the god 

Then a viewless hand was laid ; 
There were helm and spear, with a clanging din, 
And corslet brought from the shrine within, 
From the inmost shrine of the dread abode, 
And before its front array'd. 

And a sudden silence fell 

Through the dim and loaded air ! 
On the wild-bird's wing and the myrtle spray, 
And the very founts in their silvery way : 
With a weight of sleep came down the spell, 
Till man grew breathless there. 

But the pause was broken soon ! 
'Twas not by song or lyre ; 
For the Delphian maids had left their bowers, 
And the hearths were lone in the city's towers, 
But there burst a sound through the misty noon — 
That battle-noon of fire ! 

It burst from earth and heaven ! 
It roll'd from crag and cloud ! 
For a moment on the mountain-blast 
With a thousand stormy voices pass'd ; 

And the purple gloom of the sky was riven, 
When the thunder peal'd aloud. 

And the lightnings in their play 
Flash'd forth, like javelins thrown : 
Like sun-darts wing'd from the silver bow, 
They smote the spear and the turban'd brow ; [spray, 
And the bright gems flew from the crests like 
And the banners were struck down ! 

And the massy oak-boughs crash'd 
To the fire-bolts from on high, 



And the forest lent its billowy roar, 
While the glorious tempest onward bore, 

And lit the streams, as they foam'd and dash'd, 
With the fierce rain sweeping by. 

Then rush'd the Delphian men 
On the pale and scatter'd host. 
Like the joyous burst of a flashing wave, 
They rush'd from the dim Corycian cave ; 
And the singing blast o'er wood and glen 
Roll'd on, with the spears they toss'd. 

There were cries of wild dismay, 
There were shouts of warrior-glee, 
There were savage sounds of the tempest's mirth, 
That shook the realm of their eagle-birth ; 
But the mount of song, when they died away, 
Still rose, with its temple, free ! 

And the Paean swell'd ere long, 
Io Paean ! from the fane ; 
Io Psean ! for the war-array 
On the crown'd Parnassus riven that day ! 

— Thou shalt rise as free, thou mount of song ! 
With thy bounding streams again. 



THE BOWL OF LIBERTY. 1 

Before the fiery sun— 
The sun that looks on Greece with cloudless eye, 
In the free air, and on the war-field won — 
Our fathers crown'd the Bowl of Liberty. 

Amidst the tombs they stood, 
The tombs of heroes ! with the solemn skies, 
And the wide plain around, where patriot-blood 
Had steep'd the soil in hues of sacrifice. 

They call'd the glorious dead, 
In the strong faith which brings the viewless nigh, 
And pour'd rich odours o'er their battle-bed, 
And bade them to their rite of Liberty. 

They call'd them from the shades — 
The golden-fruited shades, where minstrels tell 
How softer light th' immortal clime pervades, 
And music floats o'er meads of asphodel. 

Then fast the bright-red wine 
Flow'd to their names who taught the world to die, 

1 This and the following piece appeared originally in the 

New Monthly Magazine. 



GEEEK SONGS. 243 


And made the land's green turf a living shrine, 


Know ye not whence it comes 1 


Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty. 1 


• — From ruin'd hearths, from burning fanes, 




From kindred blood on yon red plains, 


So the rejoicing earth 


From desolated homes ! 


Took from her vines again the blood she gave, 




And richer flowers to deck the tomb drew birth 


'Tis with us through the night ! 


From the free soil, thus hallow'd to the brave. 


'Tis on our hills, 'tis in our sky — 




Hear it, ye heavens ! when swords flash high 


We have the battle-fields, 


O'er the mid-waves of fight ! 


The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sky, 




We have the founts the purple vintage yields ; 




— When shall we crown the Bowl of Liberty 1 


THE SPAETANS' MAECH. 2 




[" The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into 




battle, says Thucydides, because they wished not to excite the 




rage of their warriors. Their charging-step was made to the 


THE VOICE OF SCIO. 


' Dorian mood of flutes and soft recorders.' The valour of a 




Spartan was too highly tempered to require a stunning or a 


A voice from Scio's isle — 


rousing impulse. His spirit was like a steed too proud for the 


A voice of song, a voice of old 


spur."— Campbell, On the Elegiac Poetry of the Greeks.'] 


Swept far as cloud or billow roll'd, 


'Twas morn upon the Grecian hills, 


And earth was hush'd the while — 


Where peasants dress'd the vines ; 




Sunlight was on Cithseron's rills, 


The souls of nations woke ! 


Arcadia's rocks and pines. 


Where lies the land whose hills among 




That voice of victory hath not rung, 


And brightly, through his reeds and flowers, 


As if a trumpet spoke 1 


Eurotas wander'd by, 




When a sound arose from Sparta's towers 


To sky, and sea, and shore, 


Of solemn harmony. 


Of those whose blood on Ilion's plain 




Swept from the rivers to the main, 


Was it the hunters' choral strain 


A glorious tale it bore. 


To the woodland-goddess pour'd ? 




Did virgin hands in Pallas' fane 


Still by our sun-bright deep, 


Strike the full-sounding chord 1 


With all the fame that fiery lay 




Threw round them, in its rushing way, 


But helms were glancing on the stream, 


The sons of battle sleep. 


Spears ranged in close array, 




And shields flung back a glorious beam 


And kings their turf have crown'd ! 


To the morn of a fearful day ! 


And pilgrims o'er the foaming wave 




Brought garlands there : so rest the brave, 


And the mountain-echoes of the land 


Who thus their bard have found ! 


Swell'd through the deep blue sky ; 




While to soft strains moved forth a band 


A voice from Scio's isle, 


Of men that moved to die. 


A voice as deep hath risen again ; 




As far shall peal its thrilling strain, 


They march'd not with the trumpet's blast, 


Where'er our sun may smile ! 


Nor bade the horn peal out ; 




And the laurel groves, as on they pass'd, 


Let not its tones expire ! 


Eang with no battle-shout ! 


Such power to waken earth and heaven, 




And might and vengeance, ne'er was given 


They ask'd no clarion's voice to fire 


To mortal song or lyre ! 


Their souls with an impulse high ; 




But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre 


i For an account of this ceremony, anciently performed 
in commemoration of the battle of Plataea, see Potter's 


For the sons of liberty ! 


Antiquities of Greece, vol. i. p. 389. 


2 Originally published in the Edinburgh Magazine.. 



244 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And still sweet flutes their path around 

Sent forth iEolian breath ; 
They needed not a sterner sound 

To marshal them for death ! 

So moved they calmly to their field, 

Thence never to return, 
Save bearing back the Spartan shield, 

Or on it proudly borne ! 



THE URN AND SWORD. 

They sought for treasures in the tomb, 
Where gentler hands were wont to spread 
Fresh boughs and flowers of purple bloom, 
And sunny ringlets, for the dead. 1 

They scatter'd far the greensward heap, 
Where once those hands the bright wine pour'd 
— What found they in the home of sleep 1 — 
A mouldering urn, a shiver'd sword ! 

An urn, which held the dust of one 
Who died when hearths and shrines were free ; 
A sword, whose work was proudly done 
Between our mountains and the sea. 

1 See Potter's Grecian Antiquities, vol. ii. p. 234. 



And these are treasures ! — undismay'd, 
Still for their suffering land we trust,. 
Wherein the past its fame hath laid 
With freedom's sword and valour's dust. 



THE MYRTLE BOUGH. 

Still green, along our sunny shore, 

The flowering myrtle waves, 
As when its fragrant boughs of yore 

Were offer'd on the graves — 
The graves wherein our mighty men 
Had rest, unviolated then. 

Still green it waves ! as when the hearth 
Was sacred through the land ; 

And fearless was the banquet's mirth, 
And free the minstrel's hand ; 

And guests, with shining myrtle crown'd, 

Sent the wreath'd lyre and wine-cup round. 

Still green ! as when on holy ground 
The tyrant's blood was pour'd : 

Forget ye not what garlands bound 
The young deliverer's sword ! 

Though earth may shroud Harmodius now, 

We still have sword and myrtle bough ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



ON A FLOWER FROM THE FIELD OF 
GRUTLI. 

Whence art thou, flower ? From holy ground, 
Where freedom's foot hath been ! 

Yet bugle-blast or trumpet-sound 
Ne'er shook that solemn scene. 

Flower of a noble field ! thy birth 
Was not where spears have cross'd, 

And shiver'd helms have strewn the earth, 
Midst banners won and lost. 

But where the sunny hues and showers 

Unto thy cup were given, 
There met high hearts at midnight hours, 

Pure hands were raised to heaven ; 



And vows were pledged that man should roam 

Through every Alpine dell 
Free as the wind, the torrent's foam, 

The shaft of William Tell. 

And prayer, the full deep flow of prayer, 

Hallow'd the pastoral sod ; 
And souls grew strong for battle there, 

Nerved with the peace of God. 

Before the Alps and stars they knelt, 

That calm devoted band, 
And rose, and made their spirits felt 

Through all the mountain-land. 

Then welcome, Griitli's free-born flower ! 
Even in thy pale decay 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 245 


There dwells a breath, a tone, a power, 


Within the dwelling of my sires 


Which all high thoughts obey. 


The hearths will soon be cold, 




With me must die the beacon-fires 





That stream'd at midnight from the mountain-hold. 


ON A LEAF FEOM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL. 






And let them fade, since this must be, 


And was thy home, pale wither'd thing, 


My lovely and my brave ! 


Beneath the rich blue southern sky ] 


Was thy bright blood pour'd forth for me ? 


Wert thou a nursling of the spring, 


And is there but for stately youth a grave ] 


The winds and suns of glorious Italy 1 






Speak to me once again, my boy ! 


Those suns in golden light e'en now 


Wilt thou not hear my call ] 


Look o'er the poet's lovely grave ; 


Thou wert so full of life and joy, 


Those winds are breathing soft, but thou 


I had not dreamt of this — that thou couldst fall ! 


Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave. 






Thy mother watches from the steep 


The flowers o'er Posilippo's brow 


For thy returning plume ; 


May cluster in their purple bloom, 


How shall I tell her that thy sleep 


But on th' o'ershadowing ilex-bough, 


Is of the silent house, th' untimely tomb 1 


Thy breezy place is void by Virgil's tomb. 






Thou didst not seem as one to die, 


Thy place is void ; oh ! none on earth, 


With all thy young renown ! 


This crowded earth, may so remain, 


— Ye saw his falchion's flash on high, [down ! 


Save that which souls of loftiest birth 


In the mid-fight, when spears and crests went 


Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain. 






Slow be your march ! the field is won ! 


Another leaf, ere now, hath sprung 


A dark and evil field ! 


On the green stem which once was thine ; 


Lift from the ground my noble son, 


When shall another strain be sung 


And bear him homewards on his bloody shield. 


Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine 1 




THE CHIEFTAIN'S SON. 


A FRAGMENT. 


Yes, it is ours ! — the field is won, 


Rest on your battle-fields, ye brave ! 


A dark and evil field ! 


Let the pines murmur o'er your grave, 


Lift from the ground my noble son, 


Your dirge be in the moaning wave — 


And bear him homewards on his bloody shield. 


We call you back no more ! 


Let me not hear your trumpets ring, 


Oh ! there was mourning when ye fell, 


Swell not the battle-horn ! 


In your own vales a deep-toned knell, 


Thoughts far too sad those notes will bring, 


An agony, a wild farewell — 


When to the grave my glorious flower is borne ! 


But that hath long been o'er. 


Speak not of victory ! — in the name 


Rest with your still and solemn fame ; 


There is too much of woe ! 


The hills keep record of your name, 


Hush'd be the empty voice of Fame — 


And never can a touch of shame 


Call me back his whose graceful head is low. 


Darken the buried brow. 


Speak not of victory ! — from my halls 


But we on changeful days are cast, 


The sunny hour is gone ! 


When bright names from their place fall fast ; 


The ancient banner on my walls 


And ye that with your glory pass'd, 


Must sink ere long ; I had but him — but one ! 


We cannot mourn you now. 



246 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



ENGLAND'S DEAD. 

Son of the Ocean Isle ! 
Where sleep your mighty dead ] 
Show me what high and stately pile 
Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed. 

Go, stranger ! track the deep- 
Free, free the white sail spread ! 
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, 
Where rest not England's dead. 

On Egypt's burning plains, 
By the pyramid o'ersway'd, 
With fearful power the noonday reigns, 
And the palm-trees yield no shade ; — 

But let the angry sun 
From heaven look fiercely red, 
Unfelt by those whose task is done ! — 
Tliere slumber England's dead. 

The hurricane hath might 
Along the Indian shore, 
And far by Ganges' banks at night 
Is heard the tiger's roar ; — 

But let the sound roll on ! 
It hath no tone of dread 
For those that from their toils are gone, — 
Tliere slumber England's dead. 

Loud rush the torrent-floods 
The Western wilds among, 
And free, in green Columbia's woods, 
The hunter's bow is strung ; — 

But let the floods rush on ! 
Let the arrow's flight be sped ! 
Why should they reck whose task is done %■ 
There slumber England's dead ! 

The mountain storms rise high 
In the snowy Pyrenees, 
And toss the pine-boughs through the sky 
Like rose-leaves on the breeze ; — 

But let the storm rage on ! 
Let the fresh wreaths be shed ! 
For the Boncesvalles' field is won, — 
Tliere slumber England's dead. 

On the frozen deep's repose 
'Tis a dark and dreadful hour, 



When round the ship the ice-fields close, 
And the northern night-clouds lower ;- 

But let the ice drift on ! 
Let the cold-blue desert spread ! 
Their course with mast and flag is done, — 
Even there sleep England's dead. 

The warlike of the isles, 
The men of field and wave ! 
Are not the rocks their funeral piles, 
The seas and shores their grave % 

Go, stranger ! track the deep — 
Free, free the white sail spread ! 
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, 
Where rest not England's dead. 



THE MEETING OF THE BAEDS. 

WRITTEN FOR AN EISTEDDVOD, OR MEETING OF WELSH 
BARDS, HELD IN LONDON, MAY 22, 1822. 

[The Gorseddau, or meetings of the British bards, were 
anciently ordained to be held in the open air, on some con- 
spicuous situation, whilst the sun was above the horizon ; or, 
according to the expression employed on these occasions, "in 
the face of the sun, and in the eye of light." The places set 
apart for this purpose were marked out by a circle of stones, 
called the circle of federation. The presiding bard stood on 
a large stone (Maen Gorsedd, or the stone of assembly) in 
the centre. The sheathing of a sword upon this stone was 
the ceremony which announced the opening of a Gorsedd, or 
meeting. The bards always stood in their uni-coloured robes, 
with their heads and feet uncovered, within the circle of fede- 
ration.— See Owen's Translation of the Heroic Elegies of 
Llywarch Hen.~] 

Where met our bards of old 1 ? — the glorious 

throng, 
They of the mountain and the battle-song 1 
They met — oh ! not in kingly hall or bower, 
But where wild Nature girt herself with power : 
They met where streams flash'd bright from 

rocky caves ; [graves, 

They met where woods made moan o'er warriors' 
And where the torrent's rainbow spray was cast, 
And where dark lakes were heaving to the blast, 
And midst the eternal cliffs, whose strength defied 
The crested Roman, in his hour of pride ; 
And where the Carnedd, 1 on its lonely hill, 
Bore silent record of the mighty still ; 

1 Carnedd, a stone-barrow, or cairn. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



247 



And where the Druid's ancient Cromlech 1 frown'd, 
And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round. 

There throng'd th' inspired of yore ! — on plain 

or height, 
In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light, 
And, baring unto heaven each noble head, 
Stood in the circle, where none else might tread. 
Well might their lays be lofty ! — soaring thought 
From Nature's presence tenfold grandeur caught : 
Well might bold freedom's soul pervade the strains 
Which startled eagles from their lone domains, 
And, like a breeze in chainless triumph, went 
Up through the blue resounding firmament. 
Whence came the echoes to those numbers high % 
'Twas from the battle-fields of days gone by, 
And from the tombs of heroes, laid to rest 
With their good swords, upon the mountain's 

breast ; 
And from the watch-towers on the heights of snow, 
Sever'd by cloud and storm from all below ; 
And the turf-mounds, 2 once girt by ruddy spears, 
And the rock-altars of departed years. 
— Thence, deeply mingling with the torrent's roar, 
The winds a thousand wild responses bore ; 
And the green land, whose every vale and glen 
Doth shrine the memory of heroic men, 
On all her hills awakening to rejoice, 
Sent forth proud answers to her children's voice. 

For us, not ours the festival to hold, 
Midst the stone circles hallow'd thus of old ; 
Not where great Nature's majesty and might 
First broke all glorious on our infant sight ; 
Not near the tombs, where sleep our free and brave, 
Not by the mountain-llyn, 3 the ocean-wave, 
In these late days we meet — dark Mona's shore, 
Eryri's 4 cliffs resound with harps no more ! 

But as the stream, (though time or art may turn 
The current, bursting from its cavern'd urn, 
From Alpine glens or ancient forest bowers, 
To bathe soft vales of pasture and of flowers,) 
Alike in rushing strength or sunny sleep, 
Holds on its course, to mingle with the deep ; 
Thus, though our paths be changed, still warm 

and free, 
Land of the bard ! our spirit flies to thee ! [belong, 
To thee our thoughts, our hopes, our hearts 
Our dreams are haunted by thy voice of song ! 

1 Cromlech, a Druidical monument or altar. The word 
means a stone of covenant. 

2 The ancient British chiefs frequently harangued their 
followers from small artificial mounts of turf.— Pennant. 



Nor yield our souls one patriot-feeling less 
To the green memory of thy loveliness, [height, 
Than theirs, whose harp-notes peal'd from every 
In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light! 



THE VOICE OF SPEING. 5 

I come, I come ! ye have call'd me long — 
I come o'er the mountains with light and song ! 
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth 
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, 
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, 
By the green leaves opening as I pass. 

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut 

flowers 
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers, 
And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes 
Are veil'd with wreaths on Italian plains ; — 
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, 
To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! 

I have look'd on the hills of the stormy North, 

And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, 

The fisher is out on the sunny sea, 

And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free, 

And the pine has a fringe of softer green, 

And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been. 

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, 
And call'd out each voice of the deep blue sky ; 
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, 
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, 
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, 
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks. 

From the streams and founts I have loosedthe chain. 
They are sweeping on to the silvery main, 
They are flashing down from the mountain brows, 
They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs, 
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, 
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves ! 

Come forth, ye children of gladness ! come ! 
Where the violets lie may be now your home. 
Ye of the rose-lip and dew-bright eye, 
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly ! [lay, 
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous 
Come forth to the sunshine — I may not stay. 

3 Llyn, a lake or pool. 

i Eryri, Snowdon. 

s Originally published in the New Monthly Magazine. 



248 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, 
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen ! 
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth, 
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth ! 
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, 
And youth is abroad in my green domains. 

But ye ! — ye are changed since ye met me last ! 
There is something bright from your features pass'd ! 
There is that come over your brow and eye 
Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die ! 
— Ye smile ! but your smile hath a dimness yet : 
Oh ! what have you look'd on since last we met 1 

Ye are changed, ye are changed ! — and I see not 

here 
All whom I saw in the vanish'd year ! 
There were graceful heads, with their ringlets 

bright, 
Which toss'd in the breeze with a play of light ; 
There were eyes in whose glistening laughter lay 
No faint remembrance of dull decay ! 

There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head, 
As if for a banquet all earth were spread ; [sky, 
There were voices that rang through the sapphire 
And had not a sound of mortality ! 

[" ' The Voice of Spring,' perhaps the best known and best 
loved of all Mrs Hemans' lyrics, was written early in the year 
1823 ; and is thus alluded to in a letter to a friend, who had 
lately suffered a severe and sudden bereavement : — ' ' The 
Voice of Spring' expresses some peculiar feelings of my own. 
Although my life has yet been unvisited by any affliction so 
deeply impressive, in all its circumstances, as the one you 
have been called upon to sustain ; yet I cannot but feel 
every year, with the return of the violet, how much the 
shadows of my mind have deepened since its last appearance ; 
and to me the spring, with all its joy and beauty, is generally 
a time of thoughtfulness rather than mirth. I think the most 
delightful poetry I know upon the subject of this season, is 
contained in the works of Tieck, a German poet, with whom 
you are perhaps acquainted ; but the feelings he expresses are 
of a very different character from those I have described to you, 
seeming all to proceed from an overflowing sense of life and joy.' 

' ' This indefinable feeling of languor and depression produced 
by the influence of spring, will be well understood by many a 
gentle heart. Never do the 

' Fond strange yearnings from the soul's deep cell 
Gush for the faces we no more shall see/ 
with such uncontrollable power, as when all external nature 
breathes of life and gladness. Amidst all the bright and 
joyous things around us, we are haunted with images of death 
and the grave. The force of contrast, not less strong than 
that of analogy, is unceasingly reminding us of the great 
gulf that divides us from those who are now ' gone down 
in silence.' Some unforgotten voice is ever whispering— 
' And I too in Arcadia ! ' We remember how we were wont 
to rejoice in the soft air and pleasant sunshine ; and these 
things can charm us no longer, ' because they are not.' 
The farewell sadness of autumn, on the contrary— its falling 



Are they gone 1 is their mirth from the mountains 

pass'd ? 
Ye have look'd on death since ye met me last ! 

I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now — 
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow ! 
Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace — 
She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race, 
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown : 
They are gone from amongst you in silence down ! 

They are gone from amongst you, the young and 

fair, 
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair ! 
But I know of a land where there falls no blight — 
I shall find them there, with their eyes of light ! 
Where Death midst the blooms of the morn may 

dwell, 
I tarry no longer — farewell, farewell ! 

The summer is coming, on soft winds borne — 
Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn ! 
For me, I depart to a brighter shore — 
Ye are mark'd by care, ye are mine no more ; 
I go where the loved who have left you dwell, 
And the flowers are not Death's. Fare ye well, 

farewell ! 
leaves, and universal imagery of decay, by bringing more 
home to us the sense of our own mortality, identifies us more 
closely with those who are gone before, and the veil of sepa- 
ration becomes, as it were, more transparent. We are im- 
pressed with a more pervading conviction that ' we shall go 
to them ; ' while, in spring, every thing seems mournfully to 
echo, ' they will not return to us ! ' 

" These peculiar associations may be traced in many of Mrs 
Hemans' writings, deepening with the influence of years and 
of sorrows, and more particularly developed in the poem called 
' Breathings of Spring.' And when it is remembered that 
it was at this season her own earthly course was finished, the 
following passage from a letter, written in the month of May, 
some years after the one last quoted, cannot be read without 
emotion : — ' Poor A. H. is to be buried to-morrow. With 
the bright sunshine laughing around, it seems more sad to 
think of ; yet, if I could choose when I would wish to die, it 
should be in spring— the influence of that season is so strangely 
depressing to my heart and frame.' "—Memoir, p. 66-68. 

" ' The Voice of Spring,' one of the first of what may be 
called Mrs Hemans' fanciful lyrics, which presently became 
as familiar as the music of some popular composer when 
brought to our doors by wandering minstrels." — Chorley's 
Memorials, vol. i. p. 113. 

" But it is time Mrs Hemans' poetry were allowed to speak 
for itself ; in making our extracts from it, we have really been 
as much puzzled as a child gathering flowers in a lovely garden 
—now attracted by a rose — straightway allured by a lily — now 
tempted by a stately tulip— and again unsettled by a breath- 
ing violet, or ' well-attired woodbine.' We do think, how- 
ever, that the ' Voice of Spring' is the pride of Mrs H.'s 
parterre— the rose of her poetry. "—(A. A. Watts.)— Literary 
Magnet, 1826.] 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



249 



ELYSIUM. 

[" In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes 
and persons who had either been fortunate or distinguished 
on earth ; the children, and apparently the slaves and lower 
classes — that is to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence — 
were banished to the infernal Regions." — Chateaubriand, 
Genie du Christianisme.'] 

Fair wert thou in the dreams 
Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers 
And summer winds and low-toned silvery streams, 
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers, 

Where, as they pass'd, bright hours 
Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings 
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things ! 

Fair wert thou, with the light 
On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast 
From purple skies ne'er deep'ning into night, 
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last 

Of glory, fading fast 
Along the mountains ! — but thy golden day 
Was not as those that warn us of decay. 

And ever, through thy shades, 
A swell of deep iEolian sound went by 
From fountain-voices in their secret glades, 
And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply 

To summer's bree2y sigh, [breath, 

And young leaves trembling to the wind's light 
Which ne'er had touch'd them with a hue of death ! 

And the transparent sky 
Rang as a dome, all thrilling to the strain 
Of harps that midst the woods made harmony, 
Solemn and sweet ; yet troubling not the brain 

With dreams and yearnings vain, 
And dim remembrances, that still draw birth 
From the bewildering music of the earth. 

And who, with silent tread, 
Moved o'er the plains of waving asphodel 1 
Call'd from the dim procession of the dead, 
Who midst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might 
dwell, 

And listen to the swell 
Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale 
The spirit wandering in the immortal gale 1 

They of the sword, whose praise, 
With the bright wine, at nations' feasts went round ! 
They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays 
Forth on the winds had sent their mighty sound, 

And in all regions found 



Their echoes midst the mountains ! — and become 
In man's deep heart as voices of his home ! 

They of the daring thought ! 
Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied — 
Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths, 

had sought 
The soul's far birthplace — but without a guide ! 

Sages and seers, who died, 
And left the world their high mysterious dreams, 
Born midst the olive woods by Grecian streams. 



But the most loved are they 
Of whom fame speaks not with her clarion voice, 
In regal halls ! The shades o'erhang their way ; 
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, 

And gentle hearts rejoice 
Around their steps ; till silently they die, 
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. 

And these — of whose abode, 
Midst her green valleys, earth retain'd no trace, 
Save a flower springing from their burial-sod, 
A shade of sadness on some kindred face, 

A dim and vacant place [these, 

In some sweet home ; — thou hadst no wreaths for 
Thou sunny land ! with all thy deathless trees I 

The peasant at his door 
Might sink to die when vintage-feasts were spread, 
And songs on every wind ! From thy bright shore 
No lovelier vision floated round his head — 

Thou wert for nobler dead ! 
He heard the bounding steps which round him fell, 
And sigh'd to bid the festal sun farewell ! 

The slave, whose very tears 
Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast 
Kept the mute woes and burning thoughts of years, 
As embers in a burial-urn compress'd ; 

He might not be thy guest ! 
No gentle breathings from thy distant sky 
Came o'er his path, and whisper'd "Liberty!" 

Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier, 
Unlike a gift of Nature to Decay, 
Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, 
The child at rest before the mother lay, 

E'en so to pass away, 
With its bright smile ! — Elysium ! what wert thou 
To her, who wept o'er that young slumb'rer's brow 1 ? 

Thou hadst no home, green land ! 
For the fair creature from her bosom gone, 



250 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



With life's fresh flowers just opening in its hand, 
And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown, 
Which in its clear eye shone [past — 

Like spring's first wakening ! but that light was 
Where went the dewdrop swept before the blast ] 

Not where thy soft winds play'd, 
Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep ! 
Fade with thy bowers, thou Land of Visions, fade ! 
From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep, 

And bade man cease to weep ! 
Fade, with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove, 
Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love ! 1 



THE FUNEKAL GENIUS, 



AN ANCIENT STATUE. 

" Debout, couronne" de fleurs, les bras eleves et poses sur 
sa tete, et le dos appuye" contre un pin, ce genie semble ex- 
primer par son attitude le repos des morts. Les bas-reliefs 
des tombeaux offrent souvent des figures semblables." — Vis- 
conti, Description des Antiques du Musee Royal. 

Thou shouldst be look'd on when the starlight 

falls 
Through the blue stillness of the summer air, 
Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls — 
It hath too fitful and too wild a glare ! 
And thou ! — thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems 
To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams. 

Flowers are upon thy brow ; for so the dead 
Were crown'd of old, with pale spring-flowers like 

these : 
Sleep on thine eye hath sunk ; yet softly shed 
As from the wing of some faint southern breeze : 
And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom, 
Which of the grove seems breathing — not the 

tomb. 

They fear'd not death, whose calm and gracious 

thought 
Of the last hour hath settled thus in thee ! 

1 The form of this poem was a good deal altered by Mrs 
Hemans some years after its first publication, and, though 
done so perhaps to advantage, one verse was omitted. As 
originally written, the two following stanzas concluded the 
piece : — 

For the most loved are they 
Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice, 
In regal halls ! The shades o'erhang their way ; 
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, 



They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought, 
And laid thy head against the forest tree, 
As that of one, by music's dreamy close, 
On the wood-violets lull'd to deep repose. 

They fear'd not death! — yet who shall say his 

touch 
Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair ? 
Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much 
Of tender beauty as thy features wear % 
Thou sleeper of the bower ! on whose young eyes 
So still a night, a night of summer, lies ! 

Had they seen aught like thee ? Did some fair boy 
Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest ] 
— His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy, 
But drooping, as with heavy dews oppress'd ; 
And his eye veil'd so softly by its fringe, 
And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge 1 

Oh ! happy, if to them the one dread hour 
Made known its lessons from a brow like thine ! 
If all their knowledge of the spoiler's power 
Came by a look so tranquilly divine ! 
— Let him who thus hath seen the lovely part, 
Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart. 

But thou, fair slumberer ! was there less of woe, 

Or love, or terror, in the days of old, 

That men pour'd out their gladd'ning spirit's flow, 

Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold, 

And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king, 

Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting ? 

In the dark bosom of the earth they laid 
Far more than we — for loftier faith is ours ! 
Their gems were lost in ashes — yet they made 
The grave a place of beauty and of flowers, 
With fragrant wreaths, and summer boughs 

array 'd, 
And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade. 

Is it for us a darker gloom to shed 
O'er its dim precincts ? — do we not intrust 
But for a time its chambers with our dead, 
And strew immortal seed upon the dust % 

And gentle hearts rejoice 
Around their steps ; till silently they die, 
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. 

And the world knows not then, 
Hot then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled ! 
Yet these are they, who on the souls of men 
Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread, 

The long-remember 'd dead ! 
But not with thee might aught save glory dwell — 
Fade, fade away, thou shore of asphodel ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



251 



Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath, 
When living light hath touch'd the brow of death ] 



THE TOMBS OF PLAT^A. 

FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS. 

And there they sleep ! — the men who stood 
In arms before th' exulting sun, 
And bathed their spears in Persian blood, 
And taught the earth how freedom might be won. 

They sleep ! — th' Olympic wreaths are dead, 
Th' Athenian lyres are hush'd and gone ; 
The Dorian voice of song is fled — 
Slumber, ye mighty ! slumber deeply on. 

They sleep — and seems not all around 
As hallo w'd unto glory's tomb ? 
Silence is on the battle-ground, 
The heavens are loaded with a breathless gloom. 

And stars are watching on their height, 
But dimly seen through mist and cloud ; 
And still and solemn is the light 
Which folds the plain, as with a glimmering shroud. 

And thou, pale Night-queen ! here thy beams 
Are not as those the shepherd loves, 
Nor look they down on shining streams, 
By Naiads haunted in their laurel groves. 

Thou seest no pastoral hamlet sleep, 
In shadowy quiet, midst its vines ; 
No temple gleaming from the steep, 
Midst the gray olives or the mountain pines : 

But o'er a dim and boundless waste, 
Thy rays, e'en like a tomb-lamp's, brood, 
Where man's departed steps are traced 
But by his dust, amidst the solitude. 

And be it thus ! — What slave shall tread 
O'er freedom's ancient battle-plains] 
Let deserts wrap the glorious dead [chains. 
When their bright Land sits weeping o'er her 

Here, where the Persian clarion rung, 
And where the Spartan sword flash'd high, 
And where the paean strains were sung, 
From year to year swell'd on by liberty ; 

Here should no voice, no sound, be heard, 
Until the bonds of Greece be riven. 



Save of the leader's charging-word, 
Or the shrill trumpet, pealing up through heaven ! 

Rest in your silent homes, ye brave ! 
No vines festoon your lonely tree, 1 
No harvest o'er your war-field wave, 
Till rushing winds proclaim — The land is free ! 



THE VIEW FROM CASTRI. 

FROM A PAINTING BY WILLIAMS. 

There have been bright and glorious pageants here, 
Where now gray stones and moss-grown columns 

lie ; [hear, 

There have been words, which earth grew pale to 
Breathed from the cavern's misty chambers nigh : 
There have been voices through the sunny sky, 
And the pine-woods, their choral hymn-notes 

sending, 
And reeds and lyres, their Dorian melody 
With incense-clouds around the temple blending, 
And throngs with laurel-boughs before the altar 

bending. 

There have been treasures of the seas and isles 
Brought to the Day-god's now-forsaken throne ; 
Thunders have peal'd along the rock-defiles, 
When the far-echoing battle-horn made known 
That foes were on their way ! The deep wind's 

moan 
Hath chill'd th' invader's heart with secret fear ; 
And from the Sibyl-grottoes, wild and lone, 
Storms have gone forth, which, in their fierce 

career, [the spear. 

From his bold hand have struck the banner and 

The shrine hath sunk ! — but thou unchanged art 

there ! 
Mount of the voice and vision, robed with dreams ! 
Unchanged — and rising through the radiant air, 
With thy dark waving pines, and flashing streams, 
And all thy founts of song ! Their bright course 

teems 
With inspiration yet ; and each dim haze, 
Or golden cloud which floats around thee, seems 
As with its mantle veiling from our gaze 
The mysteries of the past, the gods of elder days ! 

Away, vain fantasies ! — doth less of power 
Dwell round thy summit, or thy cliffs invest, 

1 A single tree appears in Mr Williams* impressive picture. 



252 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Though, in deep stillness, now the ruin's flower 

Wave o'er the pillars mouldering on thy breast ? 

— Lift through the free blue heavens thine arrowy- 
crest ! 

Let the great rocks their solitude regain ! 

No Delphian lyres now break thy noontide rest 

With their full chords : — but silent be the strain ! 

Thou hast a mightier voice to speak th' Eternal's 
reign I 1 



THE FESTAL HOUR. 

When are the lessons given 
That shake the startled earth] When wakes the 
foe [blow ? 

While the friend sleeps ] When falls the traitor's 

When are proud sceptres riven, 
High hopes o'erthrown 1 — It is when lands rejoice, 
When cities blaze and lift th' exulting voice, 
And wave their banners to the kindling heaven ! 

Fear ye the festal hour ! [night 

When mirth o'erflows, then tremble ! — 'Twas a 
Of gorgeous revel, wreaths, and dance, and light, 

When through the regal bower 
The trumpet peal'd ere yet the song was done, 
And there were shrieks in golden Babylon, 
And trampling armies, ruthless in their power. 

The marble shrines were crown'd : 
Young voices, through the blue Athenian sky, 
And Dorian reeds, made summer-melody, 

And censers waved around ; 
And lyres were strung and bright libations pour'd ! 
When through the streets flash'd out the avenging 

sword, 
Fearless and free, the sword with myrtles bound ! 2 

Through Eome a triumph pass'd. 
Rich in her Sun-god's mantling beams went by 
That long array of glorious pageantry, 

With shout and trumpet-blast. 
An empire's gems their starry splendour shed 
O'er the proud march ; a king in chains was led ; 
A stately victor, crown'd and robed, came last. 3 



1 This, with the preceding, and several of the following 
pieces, first appeared in the Edinburgh Magazine. 

2 The sword of Harmodius. 

3 Paulus iEmilius, one of whose sons died a few days before, 
and another shortly after, his triumph on the conquest of 
Macedon,when Perseus, king of that country, was led in chains. 



And many a Dryad's bower 
Had lent the laurels which, in waving play, 
Stirr'd the warm air, and glisten'd round his way 

As a quick-flashing shower. 
— O'er his own porch, meantime, the cypress hung, 
Through his fair halls a cry of anguish rung — 
Woe for the dead ! — the father's broken flower ! 

A sound of lyre and song, 
In the still night, went floating o'er the Nile, 
Whose waves, by many an old mysterious pile, 

Swept with that voice along ; 
And lamps were shining o'er the red wine's foam 
Where a chief revell'd in a monarch's dome, 
And fresh rose-garlands deck'd a glittering throng. 

'Twas Antony that bade 
The joyous chords ring out ! But strains arose 
Of wilder omen at the banquet's close ! 

Sounds, by no mortal made, 4 
Shook Alexandria through her streets that night, 
And pass'd — and with another sunset's light, 
The kingly Roman on his bier was laid. 

Bright midst its vineyards lay 
The fair Campanian city, 5 with its towers 
And temples gleaming through dark olive-bowers, 

Clear in the golden day ; 
Joy was around it as the glowing sky, 
And crowds had fill'd its halls of revelry, 
And all the sunny air was music's way. 

A cloud came o'er the face 
Of Italy's rich heaven ! — its crystal blue 
Was changed, and deepen'd to a wrathful hue 

Of night, o'ershadowing space 
As with the wings of death ! — in all his power 
Vesuvius woke, and hurl'd the burning shower, 
And who could tell the buried city's place ? 

Such things have been of yore, 
In the gay regions where the citrons blow, 
And purple summers all their sleepy glow 

On the grape-clusters pour ; 
And where the palms to spicy winds are waving, 
Along clear seas of melting sapphire, laving, 
As with a flow of light, their southern shore. 



4 See the description given by Plutarch, in his life of Antony, 
of the supernatural sounds heard in the streets of Alexandria, 
the night before Antony's death. 

5 Herculaneum, of which it is related, that all the inhabi- 
tants were assembled in the theatres, when the shower of ashes 
which overwhelmed the city descended. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



253 



Turn we to other climes ! — 
Far in the Druid isle a feast was spread, 
Midst the rock-altars of the warrior dead ; * 

And ancient battle-rhymes 
Were chanted to the harp ; and yellow mead 
Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed 
And lofty songs of Britain's elder time ; — 

But ere the giant-fane 
Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even, 
Hush'd were the bards, and in the face of heaven, 

O'er that old burial-plain, [ing 

Flash'd the keen Saxon dagger ! — blood was stream- 
Where late the mead-cup to the sun was gleaming, 
And Britain's hearths were heap'd that night in 
vain — 

For they return'd no more ! 
They that went forth at morn, with reckless heart, 
In that fierce banquet's mirth to bear their part : 

And on the rushy floor, 
And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls, 
The high wood-fires were blazing in their halls ; 
But not for them — they slept — their feast was o'er ! 

Fear ye the festal hour ! 
Ay, tremble when the cup of joy o'erflows ! 
Tame down the swelling heart ! The bridal rose, 

And the rich myrtle's flower, [fast 

Have veil'd the sword ! Red wines have sparkled 
From venom'd goblets, and soft breezes pass'd 
With fatal perfume through the revel's bower. 

Twine the young glowing wreath ! 
But pour not all your spirit in the song, 
Which through the sky's deep azure floats along 

Like summer's quickening breath ! 
The ground is hollow in the path of mirth : 
Oh ! far too daring seems the joy of earth, 
So darkly press'd and girdled in by death ! 

[' " The Festal Hour ' certainly appears to us to be one of the 
noblest, regular, and classical odes in the English language — 
happy in the general idea, and rich in imagery and illustra- 
tion."— Dr Morehead in Constable's Magazine, Sept.l823.~] 



SONG OF THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEK 

[" In the year 1315, Switzerland was invaded by Duke 
Leopold of Austria, with a formidable army. It is well at- 
tested that this prince repeatedly declared he ' would trample 

1 Stonehenge, said by some traditions to have been erected 
to the memory of Ambrosius, an early British king ; and by 
others mentioned as a monumental record of the massacre of 
British chiefs here alluded to. 



the audacious rustics under his feet ;' and that he had pro- 
cured a large stock of cordage, for the purpose of binding their 
chiefs, and putting them to death. 

" The 15th October 1315 dawned. The sun darted its first 
rays on the shields and armour of the advancing host ; and 
this being the first army ever known to have attempted the 
frontiers of the cantons, the Swiss viewed its long line with 
various emotions. Montfort de Tettnang led the cavalry into 
the narrow pass, and soon filled the whole space between the 
mountain (Mount Sattel) and the lake. The fifty men on the 
eminence (above Morgarten) raised a sudden shout, and rolled 
down heaps of rocks and stones among the crowded ranks. 
The confederates on the mountain, perceiving the impression 
made by this attack, rushed down in close array, and fell upon 
the flank of the disordered column. With massy clubs they 
dashed in pieces the armour of the enemy, and dealt their 
blows and thrusts with long pikes. The narrowness of the 
defile admitted of no evolutions, and a slight frost having in- 
jured the road, the horses were impeded in all their motions ; 
many leaped into the lake ; all were startled ; and at last the 
whole column gave way, and fell suddenly back on the in- 
fantry ; and these last, as the nature of the country did not 
allow them to open their files, were run over by the fugitives, 
and many of them trampled to death. A general rout en- 
sued, and Duke Leopold was with much difficulty rescued 
by a peasant, who led him to Winterthur, where the historian 
of the times saw him arrive in the evening, pale, sullen, and 
dismayed." — Planta's History of the Helvetic Confederacy.] 

The wine-month 2 shone in its golden prime, 

And the red grapes clustering hung, 
But a deeper sound, through the Switzer's clime, 
Than the vintage music, rung — 
A sound through vaulted cave, 
A sound through echoing glen, 
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave ; 
— 'Twas the tread of steel-girt men. 

And a trumpet, pealing wild and far, 
Midst the ancient rocks was blown, 
Till the Alps replied to that voice of war 
With a thousand of their own. 

And through the forest-glooms 
Flash'd helmets to the day ; 
And the winds were tossing knightly plumes, 
Like the larch-boughs in their play. 

In Hash's 3 wilds there was gleaming steel 

As the host of the Austrian pass'd ; 
And the Schreckhorn's 4 rocks, with a savage peal, 
Made mirth of his clarion's blast. 
Up midst the Righi snows 
The stormy march was heard, 
With the charger's tramp, whence fire-sparks rose, 
And the leader's gathering-word. 

2 Wine-month, the German name for October. 

3 Hasli, a wild district in the canton of Berne. 

4 Schreckhorn, the peak of terror, a mountain in the canton 
of Berne. 



254 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



But a band, the noblest band of all, 

Through the rude Morgarten strait, 
With blazon'd streamers and lances tall, 
Moved onwards in princely state. 
They came with heavy chains 
For the race despised so long — 
But amidst his Alp-domains, 

The herdsman's arm is strong ! 

The sun was reddening the clouds of morn 

When they enter'd the rock-defile, 
And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn 
Their bugles rang the while. 
But on the misty height 
Where the mountain-people stood, 
There was stillness as of night, 

When storms at distance brood. 

There was stillness as of deep, dead night, 

And a pause — but not of fear, 
While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might 
Of the hostile shield and spear. 

On wound those columns bright 
Between the lake and wood, 
But they look'd not to the misty height 
Where the mountain-people stood. 

The pass was fill'd with their serried power, 

All helm'd and mail-array' d, 
And their steps had sounds like a thunder-shower 
In the rustling forest-shade. 

There were prince and crested knight, 
Hemm'd in by cliff and flood, 
When a shout arose from the misty height 
Where the mountain-people stood. 

And the mighty rocks came bounding down 

Their startled foes among, 
With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown — 
Oh ! the herdsman's arm is strong ! — 
They came like lauwine 1 hurl'd 
From Alp to Alp in play, 
When the echoes shout through the snowy world, 
And the pines are borne away. 

The fir-woods crash'd on the mountain-side, 

And the Switzers rush'd from high, 
With a sudden charge, on the flower and pride 
Of the Austrian chivalry : 

Like hunters of the deer, 
They storm'd the narrow dell ; 

1 Lauwine, the Swiss name for the avalanche. 

2 William Tell's name is particularly mentioned amongst 
the confederates at Morgarten. 



And first in the shock, with Uri's spear, 
Was the arm of William Tell. 2 

There was tumult in the crowded strait, 

And a cry of wild dismay ; 
And many a warrior met his fate 
From a peasant's hand that day ! 
And the Empire's banner then 
From its place of waving free, 
Went down before the shepherd-men, 
The men of the Forest-Sea. 

With their pikes and massy clubs they brake 

The cuirass and the shield, 
And the war-horse dash'd to the reddening lake 
From the reapers of the field ! 

The field — but not of sheaves — 
Proud crests and pennons lay, 
Strewn o'er it thick as the birch-wood leaves 
In the autumn tempest's way. 

Oh ! the sun in heaven fierce havoc view'd 

When the Austrian turn'd to fly, 
And the brave, in the trampling multitude, 
Had a fearful death to die ! 
And the leader of the war 
At eve unhelm'd was seen, 
With a hurrying step on the wilds afar, 
And a pale and troubled mien. 

But the sons of the land which the freeman tills 

Went back from the battle-toil, 
To their cabin homes midst the deep-green hills, 
All burden'd with royal spoil. 

There were songs and festal fires 

On the soaring Alps that night, 

When children sprang to greet their sires 

From the wild Morgarten fight. 



ODE ON THE DEFEAT 

OF KING SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL, 

AND HIS ARMY, IN AFRICA. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH OF HERRERA. 

[Ferdinand de Herreha, surnamed the Divine, was a 
Spanish poet who lived in the reign of Charles V., and is 
still considered by the Castilians as one of their classic writers. 
He aimed at the introduction of a new style into Spanish 
poetry, and his lyrics are distinguished by the sustained 
majesty of their language, the frequent recurrence of expres- 
sions and images derived apparently from a fervent study 
of the prophetic books of Scripture, and the lofty tone of 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



255 



national pride maintained throughout, and justified indeed by 
the nature of the subjects to which some of these productions 
are devoted. This last characteristic is blended with a deep 
and enthusiastic feeling of religion, which rather exalts than 
tempers the haughty confidence of the poet in the high des- 
tinies of his country. Spain is to him what Judea was to the 
bards who sang beneath the shadow of her palm-trees— the 
chosen and favoured land, whose people, severed from all 
others by the purity and devotedness of their faith, are pecu- 
liarly called to wreak the vengeance of Heaven upon the infi- 
del. This triumphant conviction is powerfully expressed in 
his magnificent Ode on the Battle of Lepanto. 

The impression of deep solemnity left upon the mind of 
the Spanish reader, by another of Herrera's lyric compositions, 
will, it is feared, be very inadequately conveyed through the 
medium of the following translation.] 

" Yoz de dolor, y canto de gemido," etc. 

A voice of woe, a murmur of lament, 

A spirit of deep fear and mingled ire ; 

Let such record the day, the day of wail 

For Lusitania's bitter chastening sent ! 

She who hath seen her power, her fame expire, 

And mourns them in the dust, discrown'd and pale. 

And let the awful tale 
With grief and horror every realm o'ershade, 

From Afric's burning main 
To the far sea, in other hues array'd, 
And the red limits of the Orient's reign, 
Whose nations, haughty though subdued, behold 
Christ's glorious banner to the winds unfold. 

Alas ! for those that in embattled power, 
And vain array of chariots and of horse, 
desert Libya ! sought thy fatal coast ! 
And trusting not in Him, the eternal source 
Of might and glory, but in earthly force, 
Making the strength of multitudes then boast, 

A flush'd and crested host, 
Elate in lofty dreams of victory, trode 
Their path of pride, as o'er a conquer'd land 
Given for the spoil ; nor raised their eyes to God : 
And Israel's Holy One withdrew his hand, 
Their sole support ; — and heavily and prone 
They fell — the car, the steed, the rider, all o'er- 
thrown ! 

It came, the hour of wrath, the hour of woe, 
Which to deep solitude and tears consign'd 
The peopled realm, the realm of joy and mirth. 
A gloom was on the heavens, no mantling glow 
Announced the morn — it seem'd as nature pined, 
And boding clouds obscured the sunbeam's birth ; 

While, startling the pale earth, 
Bursting upon the mighty and the proud 

With visitation dread, 
Their crests the Eternal, in his anger, bow'd, 



And raised barbarian nations o'er their head, 
The inflexible, the fierce, who seek not gold, 
But vengeance on their foes, relentless, uncon- 
troll'd. 

Then was the sword let loose, the flaming sword 
Of the strong infidel's ignoble hand, 
Amidst that host, the pride, the flower, the crown 
Of thy fair knighthood ; and the insatiate horde, 
Not with thy life content, ruin'd land ! 
Sad Lusitania ! even thy bright renown 

Defaced and trampled down ; 
And scatter' d, rushing as a torrent-flood, 
Thy pomp of arms and banners ; — till the sands 
Became a lake of blood — thy noblest blood ! — • 
The plain a mountain of thy slaughter'd bands. 
Strength on thy foes, resistless might was shed ; 
On thy devoted sons — amaze, and shame, and dread. 

Are these the conquerors, these the lords of fight, 
The warrior men, the invincible, the famed, 
Who shook the earth with terror and dismay, 
Whose spoils were empires 1 — They that in their 

might 
The haughty strength of savage nations tamed, 
And gave the spacious Orient realms of day 

To desolation's sway, 
Making the cities of imperial name 

E'en as the desert-place 1 
Where now the fearless heart, the soul of flame ] 
Thus has their glory closed its dazzling race 
In one brief hour 1 Is this their valour's doom, 
On distant shores to fall, and find not even a 
tomb? 

Once were they, in their splendour and their pride, 

As an imperial cedar on the brow 

Of the great Lebanon ! It rose, array'd 

In its rich pomp of foliage, and of wide 

Majestic branches, leaving far below 

All children of the forest. To its shade 

The waters tribute paid, 
Fostering its beauty. Birds found shelter there 
Whose flight is of the loftiest through the sky, 
And the wild mountain-creatures made their lair 
Beneath ; and nations by its canopy 
Were shadow'd o'er. Supreme it stood, and ne'er 
Had earth beheld a tree so excellently fair. 

But all elated, on its verdant stem, 
Confiding solely in its regal height, 
It soar'd presumptuous, as for empire born ; 
And God for this removed its diadem. 
And cast it from its regions of delight, 



256 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 



Forth to the spoiler, as a prey and scorn, 

By the deep roots uptorn ! 
And lo ! encumbering the lone hills it lay, 
Shorn of its leaves, dismantled of its state ; 
While, pale with fear, men hurried far away, 
Who in its ample shade had found so late 
Their bower of rest ; and nature's savage race 
Midst the great ruin sought their dwelling-place. 

But thou, base Libya ! thou whose arid sand 
Hath been a kingdom's death-bed, where one fate 



Closed her bright life and her majestic fame, — 
Though to thy feeble and barbarian hand 
Hath fall'n the victory, be not thou elate ! 
Boast not thyself, though thine that day of shame, 

Unworthy of a name ! 
Know, if the Spaniard in his wrath advance, 
Aroused to vengeance by a nation's cry, 

Pierced by his searching lance, 
Soon shalt thou expiate crime with agony, 
And thine affrighted streams to ocean's flood 
An ample tribute bear of Afric's Paynim blood. 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 

A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 



DKAMATIS PERSONS. 



Sebastian. 
Gonzalez, Ms friend. 



Scene I. The sea-shore near Lisbon. 
Sebastian, Gonzalez, Zamor. 

Seb. With what young life and fragrance in its 
breath 
My native air salutes me ! From the groves 
Of citron, and the mountains of the vine, 
And thy majestic tide thus foaming on 
In power and freedom o'er its golden sands, 
Fair stream, my Tajo ! youth, with all its glow 
And pride of feeling, through my soul and frame 
Again seems rushing, as these noble waves 
Past their bright shores flow joyously. Sweet land, 
My own, my fathers' land, of sunny skies 
And orange bowers ! — Oh ! is it not a dream 
That thus I tread thy soil 1 Or do I wake 
From a dark dream but now ! Gonzalez, say, 
Doth it not bring the flush of early life 
Back on th' awakening spirit, thus to gaze 
On the far-sweeping river, and the shades 
Which, in their undulating motion, speak 
Of gentle winds amidst bright waters born, 
After the fiery skies and dark-red sands 
Of the lone desert 1 Time and toil must needs 
Have changed our mien ; but this, our blessed land, 
Hath gain'd but richer beauty since we bade 
Her glowing shores farewell. Seems it not thus 1 
Thy brow is clouded. 

Gon. To mine eye the scene 



Zamor, a young Arab. 
Sylveira. 

Wears, amidst all its quiet loveliness, 

A hue of desolation ; and the calm, 

The solitude and silence which pervade 

Earth, air, and ocean, seem belonging less 

To peace than sadness ! We have proudly stood 

Even on this shore, beside the Atlantic wave, 

When it hath look'd not thus. 

Seb. Ay, now thy soul 
Is in the past ! Oh no ! it look'd not thus 
When the morn smiled upon our thousand sails, 
And the winds blew for Afric. How that hour, 
With all its hues of glory, seems to burst 
Again upon my vision ! I behold 
The stately barks, the arming, the array, 
The crests, the banners of my chivalry, 
Swa/d by the sea-breeze till their motion show'd 
Like joyous life ! How the proud billows foam'd ! 
And the oars flash'd like lightnings of the deep, 
And the tall spears went glancing to the sun, 
And scattering round quick rays, as if to guide 
The valiant unto fame ! Ay, the blue heaven 
Seem'd for that noble scene a canopy 
Scarce too majestic, while it rang afar 
To peals of warlike sound ! My gallant bands ! 
Where are you now 1 

Gon. Bid the wide desert tell 
Where sleep its dead ! To mightier hosts than them 
Hath it lent graves ere now; and on its breast 
Is room for nations yet ! 

Seb. It cannot be 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 



257 



That all have perish'd ! Many a noble man, 
Made captive on that war-field, may have burst 
His bonds like ours. Cloud not this fleeting hour, 
Which to my soul is as the fountain's draught 
To the parch'd lip of fever, with a thought 
So darkly sad ! 

Gon. Oh never, never cast [more 

That deep remembrance from you ! When once 
Your place is midst earth's rulers, let it dwell 
Around you, as the shadow of your throne, 
Wherein the land may rest. My king ! this hour 
(Solemn as that which to the voyager's eye, 
In far and dim perspective, doth unfold 
A new and boundless world) may haply be 
The last in which the courage and the power 
Of truth's high voice may reach you. Who may 

stand 
As man to man, as friend to friend, before 
Th' ancestral throne of monarchs 1 Or perchance 
Toils, such as tame the loftiest to endurance, 
Henceforth may wait us here ! But howsoe'er 
This be, the lessons now from sufferings past 
Befit all time, all change. Oh ! by the blood, 
The free, the generous blood of Portugal, 
Shed on the sands of Afric — by the names 
Which, with their centuries of high renown, 
There died, extinct for ever — let not those 
Who stood in hope and glory at our side 
Here, on this very sea-beach, whence they pass'd 
To fall, and leave no trophy — let them not 
Be soon, be e'er forgotten ! for their fate 
Bears a deep warning in its awfulness, 
Whence power might well learn wisdom ! 

Seb. Thinkst thou, then, 
That years of sufferance and captivity, 
Such as have bow'd down eagle hearts ere now, 
And made high energies their spoil, have pass'd 
So lightly o'er my spirit 1 It is not thus ! 
The things thou wouldst recall are not of those 
To be forgotten ! But my heart hath still 
A sense, a bounding pulse for hope and joy, 
And it is joy which whispers in the breeze 
Sent from my own free mountains. Brave Gonzalez ! 
Thou'rt one to make thy fearless heart a shield 
Unto thy friend, in the dark stormy hour 
When knightly crests are trampled, and proud 

helms [one 

Cleft, and strong breastplates shiver'd. Thou art 
To infuse the soul of gallant fortitude 
Into the captive's bosom, and beguile 
The long slow march beneath the burning noon 
With lofty patience ; but for those quick bursts, 
Those buoyant efforts of the soul to cast 
Her weight of care to earth, those brief delights 



Whose source is in a sunbeam, or a sound [wing 
Which stirs the blood, or a young breeze, whose 
Wanders in chainless joy ; for things like these 
Thou hast no sympathies ! And thou, my Zamor, 
Art wrapt in thought ! I welcome thee to this, 
The kingdom of my fathers. Is it not 
A goodly heritage ] 

Zam. The land is fair ; 
But he, the archer of the wilderness, 
Beholdeth not the palms beneath whose shade 
His tents are scatter' d, and his camels rest ; 
And therefore is he sad ! 

Seb. Thou must not pine 
With that sick yearning of th' impatient heart, 
Which makes the exile's life one fever'd dream 
Of skies, and hills, and voices far away, 
And faces wearing the familiar hues 
Lent by his native sunbeams. I have known 
Too much of this, and would not see another 
Thus daily die. If it be so with thee, 
My gentle Zamor, speak. Behold, our bark 
Yet, with her white sails catching sunset's glow, 
Lies within signal-reach. If it be thus, 
Then fare thee well — farewell, thou brave, and true, 
And generous friend ! How often is our path 
Cross'd by some being whose bright spirit sheds 
A passing gladness o'er it, but whose course 
Leads down another current, never more 
To blend with ours ! Yet far within our souls, 
Amidst the rushing of the busy world, 
Dwells many a secret thought, which lingers yet 
Around that image. And e'en so, kind Zamor ! 
Shalt thou be long remember'd. 

Zam. By the fame 
Of my brave sire, whose deeds the warrior tribes 
Tell round the desert's watchfire, at the hour 
Of silence, and of coolness, and of stars, 
I will not leave thee ! 'Twas in such an hour 
The dreams of rest were on me, and I lay 
Shrouded in slumber's mantle, as within 
The chambers of the dead. Who saved me then, 
When the pard, soundless as the midnight, stole 
Soft on the sleeper ? Whose keen dart transfix'd 
The monarch of the solitudes ? I woke, 
And saw thy javelin crimson'd with his blood, 
Thou, my deliverer ! and my heart e'en then 
Call'd thee its brother. 

Seb. For that gift of life 
With one of tenfold price, even freedom's self, 
Thou hast repaid me well. 

Zam. Then bid me not 
Forsake thee ! Though my father's tents may rise 
At times upon my spirit, yet my home 
Shall be amidst thy mountains, prince ! and thou 



258 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 



Shalt be my chief, until I see thee robed 
With all thy power. When thou canst need no more 
Thine Arab's faithful heart and vigorous arm, 
From the green regions of the setting sun 
Then shall the wanderer turn his steps, and seek 
His Orient wilds again. 

Seb. Be near me still, 
And ever, my warrior ! I shall stand 
Again amidst my hosts a mail-clad king, 
Begirt with spears and banners, and the pomp 
And the proud sounds of battle. Be thy place 
Then at my side. When doth a monarch cease 
To need true hearts, bold hands ] Not in the field 
Of arms, nor on the throne of power, nor yet 
The couch of sleep. Be our friend, we will not part. 

Gon. Be all thy friends thus faithful, for e'en yet 
They may be fiercely tried. 

Seb. I doubt them not. [welcome. 

Even now my heart beats high to meet their 
Let us away ! 

Gon. Yet hear once more, my liege. 
The humblest pilgrim, from his distant shrine 
Returning, finds not e'en his peasant home 
Unchanged amidst its vineyards. Some loved face, 
Which made the sunlight of his lowly board, 
Is touch'd by sickness ; some familiar voice 
Greets him no more ; and shall not fate and time 
Have done their work, since last we parted hence, 
Upon an empire ? Ay, within those years, 
Hearts from their ancient worship have fall'n off, 
Andbow'd before new stars; high names have sunk 
From their supremacy of place, and others 
Gone forth, and made themselves the mighty sounds 
At which thrones tremble. Oh ! be slow to trust 
E'en those to whom your smiles were wont to seem 
As light is unto flowers. Search well the depths 
Of bosoms in whose keeping you would shrine 
The secret of your state. Storms pass not by 
Leaving earth's face unchanged. 

Seb. Whence didst thou learn 
The cold distrust which casts so deep a shadow 
O'er a most noble nature 1 

Gon Life hath been 
My stern and only teacher. I have known 
Vicissitudes in all things, but the most 
In human hearts. Oh ! yet awhile tame down 
That royal spirit, till the hour be come 
When it may burst its bondage ! On thy brow 
The suns of burning climes have set their seal, 
And toil, and years, and perils, have not pass'd 
O'er the bright aspect, and the ardent eye, 
As doth a breeze of summer. Be that change 
The mask beneath whose shelter thou may'st read 
Men's thoughts, and veil thine own. 



Seb. Am I thus changed 
From all I was ] And yet it needs must be, 
Since e'en my soul hath caught another hue 
From its long sufferings. Did I not array 
The gallant flower of Lusian chivalry, 
And lead the mighty of the land, to pour 
Destruction on the Moslem ] I return, 
And as a fearless and a trusted friend, 
Bring, from the realms of my captivity, 
An Arab of the desert ! — But the sun 
Hath sunk below th' Atlantic. Let us hence — 
Gonzalez, fear me not. [Exeunt. 



Scene II. — A Street in Lisbon illuminated. 
Many Citizens. 

1st Cit. In sooth our city wears a goodly mien, 
With her far-blazing fanes, and festive lamps 
Shining from all her marble palaces, [lattice 

Countless as heaven's fair stars. The humblest 
Sends forth its radiance. How the sparkling waves 
Fling back the light ! 

2d Cit. Ay, 'tis a gallant show ; 
And one which serves, like others, to conceal 
Things which must not be told. 

2>d Cit. What wouldst thou say 1 

2d Cit. That which may scarce, in perilous times 
like these, 
Be said with safety. Hast thou look'd within 
Those stately palaces 1 Were they but peopled 
With the high race of warlike nobles, once [now 
Their princely lords, think'st thou, good friend, that 
They would be glittering with this hollow pomp, 
To greet a conqueror's entrance ] 

3d Cit. Thou say'st well. 
None but a land forsaken of its chiefs 
Had been so lost and won. 

4th Cit. The lot is cast; [come: 

We have but to yield. Hush ! for some strangers 
Now, friends, beware. 

1st Cit. Did the king pass this way 
At morning, with his train 1 

2d Cit. Ay : saw you not 
The long and rich procession 1 

Sebastian enters with Gonzalez and Zamor. 

Seb. to Gon. This should be 
The night of some high festival. E'en thus 
My royal city to the skies sent up, 
From her illumined fanes and towers, a voice 
Of gladness, welcoming our first return 
From Afric's coast. Speak thou, Gonzalez ! ask 
The cause of this rejoicing. To my heart 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 



259 



Deep feelings rush, so mingling and so fast, 
My voice perchance might tremble. 

Gon. Citizen, 
What festal night is this, that all your streets 
Are throng'd and glittering thus ? 

1st Cit. Hast thou not heard 
Of the king's entry, in triumphal pomp, 
This very morn ? 

Gon. The king ! triumphal pomp ! — 
Thy words are dark. 

Seb. Speak yet again : mine ears 
Ring with strange sounds. Again ! 

1st Cit. I said, the king, 
Philip of Spain, and now of Portugal, 
This morning enter'd with a conqueror's train 
Our city's royal palace : and for this 
We hold our festival. 

Seb. (in a low voice.) Thou said'st — the kmg ! 
His name ? — I heard it not. 

1st Cit. Philip of Spain. 

Seb. Philip of Spain ! We slumber, till aroused 
By th' earthquake's bursting shock. Hath there 

not fall'n 
A sudden darkness ? All things seem to float 
Obscurely round me. Now 'tis past. The streets 
Are blazing with strange fire. Go, quench those 



They glare upon me till my very brain 

Grows dizzy, and doth whirl. How dare ye thus 

Light up your shrines for him? 

Gon. Away, away ! 
This is no time, no scene ■ 

Seb. Philip of Spain ! 
How name ye this fair land ? Why, is it not 
The free, the chivalrous Portugal 1 — the land 
By the proud ransom of heroic blood 
Won from the Moor of old ? Did that red stream 
Sink to the earth, and leave no fiery current 
In the veins of noble men, that so its tide, 
Full swelling at the sound of hostile steps, 
Might be a kingdom's barrier ? 

2d Cit. That high blood [shed 

Which should have been our strength, profusely 
By the rash King Sebastian, bathed the plains 
Of fatal Alcazar. Our monarch's guilt 
Hath brought this ruin down. 

Seb. Must this be heard, [stand 

And borne, and un chastised? Man, darest thou 
Before me face to face, and thus arraign 
Thy sovereign] [prince, 

Zam. (aside to Seb.) Shall I lift the sword, my 
Against thy foes ? 

Gon. Be still — or all is lost. [and know. 

2d Cit. I dare speak that which all men think 



'Tis to Sebastian, and his waste of life, 
And power, and treasure, that we owe these bonds. 
3d Cit. Talk not of bonds. May our new 

monarch rule 
The weary land in peace ! But who art thou ? 
Whence com'st thou, haughty stranger, that these 

things, 
Known to all nations, should be new to thee ? 
Seb. (xoildly) I come from regions where the 

cities lie 
In ruins, not in chains ! 



Exit 



Gonzalez and Zamor. 



2d Cit. He wears the mien 
Of one that hath commanded ; yet his looks 
And words were strangely wild. 

1st Cit. Mark'd you his fierce 
And haughty gesture, and the flash that broke 
From his dark eye, when King Sebastian's name 
Became our theme 1 

2d Cit. Trust me, there's more in this 
Than may be lightly said. These are no times 
To breathe men's thoughts i'th' open face of heaven 
And ear of multitudes. They that would speak 
Of monarchs and their deeds, should keep within 
Their quiet homes. Come, let us hence; and then 
We'll commune of this stranger. 



Scene III. — TJie Portico of a Palace. 
Sebastian, Gonzalez, Zamor. 

Seb. Withstand me not ! I tell thee that my soul, 
With all its passionate energies, is roused 
Unto that fearful strength which must have way, 
E'en like the elements in their hour of might 
And mastery o'er creation. 

Gon. But they wait 
That hour in silence. Oh ! be calm awhile — 
Thine is not come. My king 

Seb. I am no king, 
While in the very palace of my sires, 
Ay, where mine eyes first drank the glorious light, 
Where my soul's thrilling echoes first awoke 
To the high sound of earth's immortal names, 
Th' usurper lives and reigns. I am no king 
Until I cast him thence. 

Zam. Shall not thy voice 
Be as a trumpet to th' awak'ning land ? 
Will not the bright swords flash like sun-bursts 

forth, 
When the brave hear their chief? 

Gon. Peace, Zamor ! peace ! 
Child of the desert, what hast thou to do 



260 



SEBASTIAN OF POKTUGAL. 



With the calm hour of counsel 1 

Monarch, pause : 
A kingdom's destiny should not be the sport 
Of passion's reckless winds. There is a time 
When men, in very weariness of heart 
And careless desolation, tamed to yield 
By misery strong as death, will lay their souls 
E'en at the conqueror's feet — as nature sinks, 
After long torture, into cold, and dull, 
And heavy sleep. But comes there not an hour 
Of fierce atonement 1 Ay ! the slumberer wakes 
With gather'd strength and vengeance; and the 

sense 
And the remembrance of his agonies 
Are in themselves a power, whose fearful path 
Is like the path of ocean, when the heavens 
Take off its interdict. Wait, then, the hour 
Of that high impulse. 

Seb. Is it not the sun 
Whose radiant bursting through the embattled 
clouds [speak'st, 

Doth make it morn 1 The hour of which thou 
Itself, with all its glory, is the work 
Of some commanding nature, which doth bid 
The sullen shades disperse. Away ! — e'en now 
The land's high hearts, the fearless and the true, 
Shall know they have a leader. Is not this 
The mansion of mine own, mine earliest, friend 
Sylveira 1 

Gon. Ay, its glittering lamps too well 
Illume the stately vestibule to leave 
Our sight a moment's doubt. He ever loved 
Such pageantries. 

Seb. His dwelling thus adorn'd 
On such a night ! Yet will I seek him here. 
He must be faithful, and to him the first 
My tale shall be reveal'd. A sudden chill 
Falls on my heart ; and yet I will not wrong 
My friend with dull suspicion. He hath been 
Link'd all too closely with mine inmost soul. 
And what have I to lose 1 

Gon. Is their blood naught 
Who without hope will follow where thou lead'st, 
E'en unto death ] 

Seb. Was that a brave man's voice ? [learn'd 
Warrior and friend ! how long, then, hast thou 
To hold thy blood thus dear 1 

Gon. Of mine, mine own 
Think'st thou I spoke 1 When all is shed for thee 
Thou'lt know me better. 

Seb. [entering the palace) For a while farewell. 

[Exit. 

Gon. Thus princes lead men's hearts. Come, 
follow me : 



And if a home is left me still, brave Zamor ! 
There will I bid thee welcome. [Exeunt. 



Scene IV. — A Hall within the Palace. 
Sebastian, Sylveiea. 

Sylv. Whence art thou, stranger] — what wouldst 
thou with me 1 
There is a fiery wildness in thy mien 
Startling and almost fearful. 

Seb. From the stern, 
And vast, and desolate wilderness, whose lord 
Is the fierce lion, and whose gentlest wind 
Breathes of the t omb, and whose dark children make 
The bow and spear their law, men bear not back 
That smilingness of aspect, wont to mask 
The secrets of their spirits midst the stir 
Of courts and cities. I have look'd on scenes 
Boundless, and strange, and terrible; I have known 
Sufferings which are not in the shadowy scope 
Of wild imagination ; and these things 
Have stamp'd me with their impress. Man of peace, 
Thou look'st on one familiar with th' extremes 
Of grandeur and of misery. 

Sylv. Stranger, speak 
Thy name and purpose briefly, for the time 
111 suits these mysteries. I must hence ; to-night 
I feast the lords of Spain. 

Seb. Is that a task 
For King Sebastian's friend ? 

Sylv. Sebastian's friend ! 
That name hath lost its meaning. Will the dead 
Kise from their silent dwellings, to upbraid 
The living for their mirth 1 The grave sets bounds 
Unto all human friendship. 

Seb. On the plain 
Of Alcazar full many a stately flower, 
The pride and crown of some high house, was laid 
Low in the dust of Afric ; but of these 
Sebastian was not one. 

Sylv. I am not skill' d 
To deal with men of mystery. Take, then, off 
The strange dark scrutiny of thine eye from mine 
What mean'st thou 1 — Speak ! 

Seb. Sebastian died not there. 

I read no joy in that cold doubting mien. 
Is not thy name Sylveira '? 

Sylv. Ay. 

Seb., Why, then, 
Be glad ! I tell thee that Sebastian lives ! 
Think thou on this — he lives ! Should he return — 
For he may yet return — and find the friend 
In whom he trusted with such perfect trust 



SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL. 



261 



As should be heaven's alone— mark'st thou my 

words ? — 
Should he then find this man, not girt and arm'd, 
And watching o'er the heritage of his lord, 
But, reckless of high fame and loyal faith, 
Holding luxurious revels with his foes, 
How would thou meet his glance ? 

Sylv. As I do thine, 
Keen though it be, and proud. 

Seb. Why, thou dost quail 
Before it ! even as if the burning eye 
Of the broad sun pursued thy shrinking soul 
Through all its depths. 

Sylv. Away ! he died not there ! 
He should have died there, with the chivalry 
And strength and honour of his kingdom, lost 
By his impetuous rashness. 

Seb. This from thee ? 
Who hath given power to falsehood, that one gaze 
At its unmask'd and withering mien, should blight 
High souls at once 1 ? I wake. And this from thee 1 
There are, whose eyes discern the secret springs 
Which he beneath the desert, and the gold 
And gems within earth's caverns, far below 
The everlasting hills : but who hath dared 
To dream that heaven's most awful attribute 
Invested his mortality, and to boast 
That through its inmost folds his glance could read 
One heart, one human heart ? Why, then, to love 
And trust is but to lend a traitor arms 
Of keenest temper and unerring aim, 
Wherewith to pierce our souls. But thou, beware ! 
Sebastian lives ! 

Sylv. If it be so, and thou 
Art of his followers still, then bid him seek 
Far in the wilds, which gave one sepulchre 
To his proud hosts, a kingdom and a home, 
For none is left him here. 

Seb. This is to live 
An age of wisdom in an hour ! The man 
Whose empire, as in scorn, o'erpass'd the bounds 
E'en of the infinite deep ; whose Orient realms 
Lay bright beneath the morning, while the clouds 
Were brooding in their sunset mantle still, 
O'er his majestic regions of the West; 
This heir of far dominion shall return, 
And, in the very city of his birth, 
Shall find no home ! Ay, I will tell him this, 
And he will answer that the tale is false, 
False as a traitor's hollow words of love ; 
And that the stately dwelling, in whose halls 
We commune now — a friend's, a monarch's gift, 
Unto the chosen of his heart, Sylveira, 
Should yield him still a welcome. 



Sylv. Fare thee well ! 
I may not pause to hear thee, for thy words 
Are full of danger, and of snares, perchance 
Laid by some treacherous foe. But all in vain. 
I mock thy wiles to scorn. 

Seb. Ha ! ha ! The snake 
Doth pride himself in his distorted cunning, 
Deeming it wisdom. Nay, thou go'st not thus. 
My heart is bursting, and I will be heard. 
What ! know'st thou not my spirit was born to hold 
Dominion over thine 1 Thou shalt not cast [there, 
Those bonds thus lightly from thee. Stand thou 
And tremble in the presence of thy lord ! 

Sylv. This is all madness. 

Seb. Madness ! no, I say — 
'Tis Reason starting from her sleep, to feel, 
And see, and know, in all their cold distinctness. 
Things which come o'er her, as a sense of pain 
0' th' sudden wakes the dreamer. Stay thee yet ; 
Be still. Thou 'rt used to smile and to obey ; 
Ay, and to weep. I have seen thy tears flow fast, 
As from the fulness of a heart o'ercharged 
With loyal love. Oh ! never, never mom 
Let tears or smiles be trusted ! When thy king 
Went forth on his disastrous enterprise, 
Upon thy bed of sickness thou wast laid, 
And he stood o'er thee with the look of one 
Who leaves a dying brother, and his eyes 
Were fill'd with tears like thine. No! not like thine: 
Bis bosom knew no falsehood, and he deem'd 
Thine clear and stainless as a warrior's shield, 
Wherein high deeds and noble forms alone 
Are brightly imaged forth. 

Sylv. What now avail 
These recollections'? 

Seb. What ! I have seen thee shrink, 
As a murderer from the eye of light, before me : 
I have earn'd (how dearly and how bitterly 
It matters not, but I have earn'd at last) 
Deep knowledge, fearful wisdom. Now, begone ! 
Hence to thy guests, and fear not, though arraign'd 
E'en of Sebastian's friendship. Make his scorn 
(For he will scorn thee, as a crouching slave 
By all high hearts is scorn'd) thy right, thy charter 
Unto vile safety. Let the secret voice, 
Whose low upbraidings will not sleep within thee, 
Be as a sign, a token of thy claim 
To all such guerdons as are shower'd on traitors, 
When noble men are crush'd. And fear thou not : 
'Tis but the kingly cedar which the storm 
Hurls from his mountain throne — th' ignoble 

shrub, 
Grovelling beneath, may live. 

Sylv. It is thy part 



262 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



To tremble for thy life. 

Seb. They that have look'd 
Upon a heart like thine, should know too well 
The worth of life to tremble. Such things make 
Brave men, and reckless. Ay, and they whom fate 
Would trample should be thus. It is enough — 
Thou may'st depart. 

Sylv. And thou, if thou dost prize 
Thy safety, speed thee hence. 

[Exit Stlveira. 

Seb. (alone.) And this is he 
Who was as mine own soul : whose image rose, 
Shadowing my dreams of glory with the thought 
That on the sick man's weary couch he lay, 
Pining to share my battles ! 



CHORUS. 

Ye winds that sweep 
The conquer'd billows of the western deep, 

Or wander where the morn 
Midst the resplendent Indian heavens is born, 
Waft o'er bright isles and glorious worlds the fame 
Of the crown'd Spaniard's name : 

Till in each glowing zone 

Its might the nations own, 
And bow to him the vassal knee 
Whose sceptre shadows realms from sea to sea. 

Seb. Away — away ! this is no place for him 
Whose name hath thus resounded, but is now 
A word of desolation. [Exit. 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



A DRAMATIC POEM.* 



Judicio ha dado esta no vista hazanna 
Del valor que en los siglos venideros 
Tendran los Hijos de la fuerte Espanna, 
Hijos de tal padres herederos. 



Hall6 sola en Nurcancia todo quanto 

Debe con justo titulo cantarse 

Y lo que puede dar materia al canto." 



Cervantes, Niimancia. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Alvar Gonzalez, Governor of Valencia. 
Alphonso, Carlos, his Sons. 
Hernandez, a Priest. 
Abdullah, a Moorish Prince, Chief of 
the Army besieging Valencia. 



Garcias, a Spanish Knight. 

Elmina, Wife to Gonzalez. 
Ximena, her Daughter. 
Theresa, an attendant. 



Citizens, Soldiers, Attendants, S,~c. 



1 Advertisement by the Author. — The history of Spain records 
two instances of the severe and self- devoting heroism which 
forms the subject of the following dramatic poem. The first 
of these occurred at the siege of Tarifa, which was defended, 
in 1294, for Sancho King of Castile, during the rebellion of 
his brother Don Juan, by Guzman surnamed the Good. 2 
The second is related of Alonso Lopez de Texeda, who, until 
his garrison had been utterly disabled by pestilence, main- 
tained the city of Zamora for the children of Don Pedro the 
Cruel, against the forces of Henrique of Trastamara. 3 

Impressive as were the circumstances which distinguished 

2 See Quintana's " Vidas de Espanoles Celebres," p. 53. 

3 See the Preface to Southey's " Chronicle of the Cid." 



both these memorable sieges, it appeared to the author of 
the following pages that a deeper interest, as well as a stronger 
colour of nationality, might be imparted to the scenes in 
which she has feebly attempted " to describe high passions 
and high actions," by connecting a religious feeling with the 
patriotism and high-minded loyalty which had thus been 
proved " faithful unto death," and by surrounding her ideal 
dramatis personce with recollections derived from the heroic 
legends of Spanish chivalry. She has, for this reason, em- 
ployed the agency of imaginary characters, and fixed upon 
Valencia del Cid as the scene to give them 

" A local habitation and a name." 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



263 



Scene I. — Room in a Palace of Valencia. — Xihena 
singing to a lute. 

BALLAD. 

" Thou hast not been with a festal throng 

At the pouring of the wine ; 
Men bear not from the hall of song 
A mien so dark as thine ! 

There's blood upon thy shield, 
There's dust upon thy plume, 
Thou hast brought from some disastrous field 
That brow of wrath and gloom ! " 

"And is there blood upon my shield 1 

Maiden, it well may be ! 
We have sent the streams from our battle-field 
All darken'd to the sea ! 

We have given the founts a stain, 
Midst their woods of ancient pine ; 
And the ground is wet — but not with rain, 
Deep dyed — but not with wine ! 

" The ground is wet — but not with rain — 

We have been in war-array, 
And the noblest blood of Christian Spain 
Hath bathed her soil to-day. 
I have seen the strong man die, 
And the stripling meet his fate, 
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by 
In the Eoncesvalles' Strait. 

" In the gloomy Eoncesvalles' Strait 
There are helms and lances cleft ; 
And they that moved at morn elate 
On a bed of heath are left ! 
There's many a fair young face 
Which the war-steed hath gone o'er ; 
At many a board there is kept a place 
For those that come no more ! " 

" Alas ! for love, for woman's breast, 

If woe like this must be ! 
Hast thou seen a youth with an eagle-crest, 
And a white plume waving free 1 
With his proud quick-flashing eye, 
And his mien of knightly state 1 
Doth he come from where the swords fiash'd high 
In the Eoncesvalles' Strait ? " 

"In the gloomy Eoncesvalles' Strait 

I saw, and mark'd him well ; 
For nobly on his steed he sate, 

When the pride of manhood fell ! 



But it is not youth which turns 
From the field of spears again ; 
For the boy's high heart too wildly burns, 
Till it rests amidst the slain ! " 

" Thou canst not say that he lies low, 

The lovely and the brave : 
Oh ! none could look on his joyous brow, 
And think upon the grave ! 
Dark, dark perchance the day 
Hath been with valour's fate ; 
But he is on his homeward way 

From the Eoncesvalles' Strait ! " 

" There is dust upon his joyous brow, 

And o'er his graceful head ; 
And the war-horse will not wake him now, 
Though it browse his greensward bed ! 
I have seen the stripling die, 
And the strong man meet his fate 
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by 
In the Eoncesvalles' Strait ! " 

Elmina enters. 

Mm. Your songs are not as those of other days, 
Mine own Ximena ! Where is now the young 
And buoyant spirit of the morn, which once 
Breathed in your spring-like melodies, and woke 
Joy's echo from all hearts 1 

Xim. My mother, this 
Is not the free air of our mountain-wilds ; 
And these are not the halls wherein my voice 
First pour'd those gladd'ning strains. 

Elm. Alas ! thy heart 
(I see it well) doth sicken for the pure 
Free-wandering breezes of the joyous hills, 
Where thy young brothers, o'er the rock and heath, 
Bound in glad boyhood, e'en as torrent-streams 
Leap brightly from the heights. Had we not been 
Within these walls thus suddenly begirt, 
Thou shouldst have track'd ere now, with step as 

light, 
Their wild-wood paths. 

Xim. I would not but have shared 
These hours of woe and peril, though the deep 
And solemn feelings wakening at their voice 
Claim all the wrought-up spirit to themselves, 
And will not blend with mirth. The storm doth 

hush 
All floating whispery sounds, all bird-notes wild 
0' th' summer-forest, filling earth and heaven 
With its own awful music. And 'tis well ! 
Should not a hero's child be train'd to hear 
The trumpet's blast unstartled, and to look 



264 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



In the fix'd face of death without dismay 1 

Elm. "Woe ! woe ! that aught so gentle and so 
young 
Should thus be call'd to stand i' the tempest's path, 
And bear the token and the hue of death 
On a bright soul so soon ! I had not shrunk 
From mine own lot ; but thou, my child, shouldst 

move 
As a light breeze of heaven, through summer- 
bowers, 
And not o'er foaming billows. We are fall'n 
On dark and evil days ! 

Xim. Ay, days that wake 
All to their tasks ! — Youth may not loiter now 
In the green walks of spring ; and womanhood 
Is summon'd unto conflicts, heretofore 
The lot of warrior-spirits. Strength is born 
In the deep silence of long-suffering hearts ; 
Not amidst joy. 

Elm. Hast thou some secret woe 
That thus thou speak'st ? 

Xim. What sorrow should be mine, 
Unknown to thee ? 

Elm. Alas ! the baleful air, 
Wherewith the pestilence in darkness walks 
Through the devoted city, like a blight 
Amidst the rose-tints of thy cheek hath fall'n, 
And wrought an early withering. Thou hast 

cross'd 
The paths of death, and minister'd to those 
O'er whom his shadow rested, till thine eye 
Hath changed its glancing sunbeam for a still, 
Deep, solemn radiance ; and thy brow hath caught 
A wild and high expression, which at times 
Fades into desolate calmness, most unlike 
What youth's bright mien should wear. My 

gentle child ! 
I look on thee in fear ! 

Xim. Thou hast no cause 
To fear for me. When the wild clash of steel, 
And the deep tambour, and the heavy step 
Of armed men, break on our morning dreams — 
When, hour by hour, the noble and the brave 
Are falling round us, and we deem it much 
To give them funeral-rites, and call them blest 
If the good sword, in its own stormy hour, 
Hath done its work upon them, ere disease 
Had chill'd their fiery blood ; — it is no time 
For the light mien wherewith, in happier hours, 
We trode the woodland mazes, when young leaves 



1 Mountain-Christians, those natives of Spain who, under 
their prince Pelayo, took refuge amongst the mountains of 
the northern provinces, where they maintained their religion 



Were whispering in the gale. — My father comes — 
Oh ! speak of me no more. I would not shade 
His princely aspect with a thought less high 
Than his proud duties claim. 

Gonzalez enters. 

Elm. My noble lord ! 
Welcome from this day's toil ! It is the hour 
Whose shadows, as they deepen, bring repose 
Unto all weary men ; and wilt not thou 
Free thy mail'd bosom from the corslet's weight, 
To rest at fall of eve 1 

Qon. There may be rest 
For the tired peasant, when the vesper-bell 
Doth send him to his cabin, and beneath 
His vine and olive he may sit at eve, 
Watching his children's sport : but unto Mm 
Who keeps the watch-place on the mountain-height, 
When heaven lets loose the storms that chasten 

realms 
— Who speaks of rest ? 

Xim. My father, shall I fill 
The wine-cup for thy lips, or bring the lute 
Whose sounds thou lovest 1 

Qon. If there be strains of power 
To rouse a spirit, which in triumphant scorn 
May cast off nature's feebleness, and hold 
Its proud career unshackled, dashing down 
Tears and fond thoughts to earth ; give voice to 

those ! 
I have need of such, Ximena ! — we must hear 
No melting music now ! 

Xim. I know all high 
Heroic ditties of the elder-time, 
Sung by the mountain-Christians, 1 in the holds 
Of th' everlasting hills, whose snows yet bear 
The print of Freedom's step ; and all wild strains 
Wherein the dark serranos 2 teach the rocks 
And the pine-forests deeply to resound 
The praise of later champions. Wouldst thou hear 
The war-song of thine ancestor, the Cid 1 ? [power, 

Gon. Ay, speak of him ; for in that name is 
Such as might rescue kingdoms ! Speak of him ! 
We are his children ! They that can look back 
I' th' annals of their house on such a name, 
How should they take Dishonour by the hand, 
And o'er the threshold of their fathers' halls 
First lead her as a guest 1 

Elm. Oh, why is this % 
How my heart sinks ! 



and liberty, whilst the rest of their country was overrun by 
the Moors. 
2 Serranos, mountaineers. 






UHflJ 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



265 



Gon. It must not fail thee yet, 
Daughter of heroes ! — thine inheritance 
Is strength to meet all conflicts. Thou canst number 
In thy long line of glorious ancestry- 
Men, the bright offering of whose blood hath made 
The ground it bathed e'en as an altar, whence 
High thoughts shall rise for ever. Bore they not, 
Midst flame and sword, their witness of the Cross, 
With its victorious inspiration girt 
As with a conqueror's robe, till th' infidel, 
O'erawed, shrank back before them 1 Ay, the earth 
Doth call them martyrs ; but their agonies 
Were of a moment, tortures whose brief aim 
Was to destroy, within whose powers and scope 
Lay naught but dust. And earth doth call them 
martyrs ! [and not 

Why, heaven but claim'd their blood, their lives, 
The things which grew as tendrils round their 

hearts ; 
No, not their children ! 

Elm. Mean'st thou 1 know'st thou aught ? — 
I cannot utter it — my sons ! my sons ! 
Is it of them? Oh! wouldst thou speak of them 1 ? 

Gon. A mother's heart divineth but too well ! 

Elm. Speak, I adjure thee ! I can bear it all. 
Where are my children ] 

Gon. In the Moorish camp 
Whose lines have girt the city. 

Xim. But they live ? 
— All is not lost, my mother ! 

Elm. Say, they live. 

Gon. Elmina, still they live. 

Elm. But captives ! They 
Whom my fond heart had imaged to itself 
Bounding from cliff to cliff, amidst the wilds 
Where the rock-eagle seem'd not more secure 
In its rejoicing freedom ! And my boys 
Are captives with the Moor ! — oh ! how was this] 

Gon. Alas ! our brave Alphonso, in the pride 
Of boyish daring, left our mountain-halls, 
With his young brother, eager to behold 
The face of noble war. Thence on their way 
Were the rash wanderers captured. 

Elm. 'Tis enough. 
— And when shall they be ransom'd 1 

Gon. There is ask'd 
A ransom far too high. 

Elm. What ! have we wealth 
Which might redeem a monarch, and our sons 
The while wear fetters 1 Take thou all for them, 
And we will cast our worthless grandeur from us 
As 'twere a cumbrous robe ! Why, thou art one, 
To whose high nature pomp hath ever been 
But as the plumage to a warrior's helm, 



Worn or thrown off as lightly. And for me, 
Thou knowst not how serenely I could take 
The peasant's lot upon me, so my heart, 
Amidst its deep affections undisturb'd, 
May dwell in silence. 

Xim. Father ! doubt thou not 
But we will bind ourselves to poverty, 
With glad devotedness, if this, but this, 
May win them back. Distrust us not, my father ! 
We can bear all things. 

Gon. Can ye bear disgrace ? 

Xim. We were not born for this. 

Gon. No, thou say'st well ! 
Hold to that lofty faith. My wife, my child ! 
Hath earth no treasures richer than the gems 
Torn from her secret caverns 1 If by them 
Chains may be riven, then let the captive spring 
Rejoicing to the light ! But he for whom 
Freedom and life may but be won with shame, 
Hath naught to do, save fearlessly to fix 
His steadfast look on the majestic heavens, 
And proudly die ! 

Elm. Gonzalez, who must die 1 

Gon. (hurriedly.) They on whose lives a fearful 
price is set, 
But to be paid by treason ! Is't enough ] 
Or must I yet seek words 1 

Elm. That look saith more ! 
Thou canst not mean 

Gon. I do ! why dwells there not 
Power in a glance to speak it ] They must die ! 
They — must their names be told 1 — our sons must 

die, 
Unless I yield the city ! 

Xim. Oh, look up ! 
My mother, sink not thus ! Until the grave 
Shut from our sight its victims, there is hope. 

Elm. (in a low voice.) Whose knell was in the 
breeze ? No, no, not theirs ! 
Whose was the blessed voice that spoke of hope ? 
— And there is hope ! I will not be subdued — 
I will not hear a whisper of despair ! 
For nature is all-powerful, and her breath 
Moves like a quickening spirit o'er the depths 
Within a father's heart. Thou too, Gonzalez, 
Wilt tell me there is hope ! 

Gon. (solemnly.) Hope but in Him 
Who bade the patriarch lay his fair young son 
Bound on the shrine of sacrifice, and when 
The bright steel quiver'd in the father's hand 
Just raised to strike, sent forth his awful voice 
Through the still clouds and on the breathless air, 
Commanding to withhold ! Earth has no hope : 
It rests with Him. 



266 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Elm. Thou canst not tell me this ! 
Thou, father of my sons, within whose hands 
Doth lie thy children's fate. 

Gon. If there have been 
Men in whose bosoms nature's voice hath made 
Its accents as the solitary sound 
Of an o'erpowering torrent, silencing 
Th' austere and yet divine remonstrances 
Whisper'd by faith and honour, lift thy hands ; 
And, to that Heaven which arms the brave with 

strength, 
Pray that the father of thy sons may ne'er 
Be thus found wanting ! 

Elm. Then their doom is seal'd ! 
Thou wilt not save thy children ] 

Gon. Hast thou cause, 
Wife of my youth ! to deem it lies within 
The bounds of possible things, that I should link 
My name to that word — traitor 1 They that sleep 
On their proud battle-fields, thy sires and mine, 
Died not for this ! 

Elm. Oh, cold and hard of heart ! 
Thou shouldst be born for empire, since thy soul 
Thus lightly from all human bonds can free 
Its haughty flight ! Men ! men ! too much is yours 
Of vantage ; ye that with a sound, a breath, 
A shadow, thus can fill the desolate space 
Of rooted-up affections, o'er whose void 
Our yearning hearts must wither ! So it is, 
Dominion must be won ! Nay, leave me not — 
My heart is bursting, and I must be heard ! 
Heaven hath given power to mortal agony, 
As to the elements in their hour of might 
And mastery o'er creation ! Who shall dare 
To mock that fearful strength ! I must be heard ! 
Give me my sons. 

Gon. That they may live to hide 
With covering hands th' indignant flush of shame 
Ontheir young brows, when men shall speak of him 
They call'd their father ! Was the oath whereby, 
On th' altar of my faith, I bound myself 
With an unswerving spirit to maintain 
This free and Christian city for my God 
And for my king, a writing traced on sand 1 
That passionate tears should wash it from the earth, 
Or e'en the life-drops of a bleeding heart 
Efface it, as a billow sweeps away 
The last light vessel's wake 1 Then never more 
Let man's deep vows be trusted ! — though enforced 
By all th' appeals of high remembrances, 
And silent claims o' th' sepulchres wherein 
His fathers with their stainless glory sleep, [pangs? 
On their good swords ! Think'st thou / feel no 
He that hath given me sons doth know the heart 



Whose treasure he recalls. Of this no more : 
'Tis vain. I tell thee that th' inviolate Cross 
Still from our ancient temples must look up [foot 
Through the blue heavens of Spain, though at its 
I perish, with my race. Thou darest not ask 
That I, the son of warriors — men who died 
To fix it on that proud supremacy — 
Should tear the sign of our victorious faith 
From its high place of sunbeams, for the Moor 
In impious joy to trample ! 

Elm. Scorn me not 
In mine extreme of misery ! Thou art strong — 
Thy heart is not as mine. My brain grows wild ; 
I know not what I ask. And yet 'twere but 
Anticipating fate — since it must fall, 
That Cross must fall at last ! There is no power, 
No hope within this city of the grave, 
To keep its place on high. Her sultry air 
Breathes heavily of death, her warriors sink 
Beneath their ancient banners, ere the Moor 
Hath bent his bow against them ; for the shaft 
Of pestilence flies more swiftly to its mark, 
Than th' arrow of the desert. Even the skies 
O'erhang the desolate splendour of her domes 
With an ill omen's aspect, shaping forth, 
From the dull clouds, wild menacing forms and signs 
Foreboding ruin. Man might be withstood, 
But who shall cope with famine and disease [aid, 
When leagued with armed foes ] Where now the 
Where the long-promised lances of Castile ? 
We are forsaken in our utmost need — 
By heaven and earth forsaken ! 

Gon. If this be, 
(And yet I will not deem it,) we must fall 
As men that in severe devotedness [death, 

Have chosen their part, and bound themselves to 
Through high conviction that their suffering land 
By the free blood of martyrdom alone 
Shall call deliverance down. 

Elm. Oh ! I have stood 
Beside thee through the beating storms of life 
With the true heart of unrepining love — 
As the poor peasant's mate doth cheerily, 
In the parch'd vineyard, or the harvest field, 
Bearing her part, sustain with him the heat 
And burden of the day. But now the hour, 
The heavy hour is come, when human strength 
Sinks down, a toil-worn pilgrim, in the dust, 
Owning that woe is mightier ! Spare me yet 
This bitter cup, my husband ! Let not her, 
The mother of the lovely, sit and mourn 
In her unpeopled home — a broken stem, 
O'er its fallen roses dying ! 

Gon. Urge me not, 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



267 



Thou that through all sharp conflicts hast beenfound 
Worthy a brave man's love ! — oh, urge me not 
To guilt, which, through the midst of blinding tears, 
In its own hues thou seest not ! Death may scarce 
Bring aught like this ! 

Elm. All, all thy gentle race, 
The beautiful beings that around thee grew, 
Creatures of sunshine ! Wilt thou doom them all 1 
She, too, thy daughter — doth her smile unmark'd 
Pass from thee, with its radiance, day by day 1 
Shadows are gathering round her : seest thou not 
The misty dimness of the spoiler's breath 
Hangs o'er her beauty ; and the face which made 
The summer of our hearts, now doth but send, 
With every glance, deep bodings through the soul, 
Telling of early fate \ 

Gon. I see a change 
Far nobler on her brow ! She is as one, 
Who, at the trumpet's sudden call, hath risen 
From the gay banquet, and in scorn cast down 
The wine-cup, and the garland, and the lute 
Of festal hours, for the good spear and helm, 
Beseeming sterner tasks. Her eye hath lost 
The beam which laugh'd upon th' awakening heart, 
E'en as morn breaks o'er earth. But far within 
Its full dark orb, a light hath sprung, whose source 
Lies deeper in the soul. And let the torch, 
Which but illumed the glittering pageant, fade ! 
The altar-flame, i' th' sanctuary's recess, 
Burns quenchless, being of heaven ! She hath put on 
Courage, and faith, and generous constancy, 
Even as a breastplate. Ay ! men look on her, 
As she goes forth serenely to her tasks, 
Binding the warrior's wounds, and bearing fresh 
Cool draughts to fever'd lips — they look on her, 
Thus moving in her beautiful array 
Of gentle fortitude, and bless the fair 
Majestic vision, and unmurmuring turn 
Unto their heavy toils. 

Elm. And seest thou not 
In that high faith and strong collectedness, 
A fearful inspiration 1 They have cause 
To tremble, who behold th' unearthly light 
Of high and, it may be, prophetic thought 
Investing youth with grandeur ! From the grave 
It rises, on whose shadowy brink thy child 
Waits but a father's hand to snatch her back 
Into the laughing sunshine. Kneel with me ; 
Ximena ! kneel beside me, and implore 
That which a deeper, more prevailing voice 
Than ours doth ask, and will not be denied, 
— His children's lives ! 

Xim. Alas ! this may not be : 
Mother ! — I cannot. [Exit Ximena. 



Gon. My heroic child ! 
— A terrible sacrifice thou claim'st, God ! 
From creatures in whose agonising hearts 
Nature is strong as death ! 

Elm. Is 't thus in thine 1 
Away ! What time is given thee to resolve 
On — what I cannot utter 1 ? Speak ! thou know'st 
Too well what I would say. 

Gon. Until — ask not ! 
The time is brief. 

Elm. Thou said'st — I heard not right 

Gon. The time is brief. 

Elm. What ! must we burst all ties 
Wherewith the thrilling chords of life are twined ! 
And, for this task's fulfilment, can it be 
That man in his cold heartlessness, hath dared, 
To number and to mete us forth the sands 
Of hours, nay, moments'? Why, the sentenced 

wretch, 
He on whose soul there rests a brother's blood 
Pour'd forth in slumber, is allow'd more time 
To wean his turbulent passions from the world 
His presence doth pollute ! It is not thus ? 
We must have time to school us. 

Gon. We have but 
To bow the head in silence, when heaven's voice 
Calls back the things we love. [gentle words. 

Elm. Love ! love ! — there are soft smiles and 
And there are faces, skilful to put on 
The look we trust in — and 'tis mockery all ! 
— A faithless mist, a desert-vapour, wearing 
The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat 
The thirst that semblance kindled ! There is none, 
In all this cold and hollow world — no fount 
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within 
A mother's heart. It is but pride, wherewith 
To his fair son the father's eye doth turn, 
Watching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks, 
The bright glad creature springing in his path, 
But as the heir of his great name — the young 
And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long 
Shall bear his trophies well. And this is love ! 
This is man's love! What marvel? — you neer 

made 
Your breast the pillow of his infancy, 
While to the fulness of your heart's glad heavings 
His fair cheek rose and fell ; and his bright hair 
Waved softly to your breath ! You ne'er kept 

watch 
Beside him, till the last pale star had set, 
And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph, broke 
On your dim weaiy eye ; not yours the face 
Which, early faded through fond care for him, 
Hung o'er his sleep, and, duly as heaven's light, 



268 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Was there to greet his wak'ning ! You ne'er smooth'd 
His couch, ne'er sang him to his rosy rest ; 
Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours 
Had learn'd soft utterance; press'd your lip to his, 
When fever parch'd it ; hush'd his wayward cries, 
With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love ! 
No ! these are woman's tasks ! — in these her youth, 
And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart, 
Steal from her all unmark'd ! My boys ! my boys ! 
Hath vain affection borne with all for this 1 
— Why were ye given me? 

Gon. Is there strength in man [all 

Thus to endure? That thou couldst read, through 
Its depths of silent agony, the heart 
Thy voice of woe doth rend ! [now/ 

Elm. Thy heart — thy heart ! Away ! it feels not 
But an hour comes to tame the mighty man 
Unto the infant's weakness ; nor shall heaven 
Spare you that bitter chastening ! May you live 
To be alone, when loneliness doth seem 
Most heavy to sustain ! For me, my voice 
Of prayer and fruitless weeping shall be soon 
With all forgotten sounds — my quiet place 
Low with my lovely ones ; and we shall sleep, 
Though kings lead armies o'er us— we shall sleep, 
Wrapt in earth's covering mantle ! You the while 
Shall sit within your vast forsaken halls, 
And hear the wild and melancholy winds 
Moan through their drooping banners, never more 
To wave above your race. Ay, then call up 
Shadows — dim phantoms from ancestral tombs, 
But alkali — glorious, — conquerors, chieffcains,kings, 
To people that cold void ! And when the strength 
From your right arm hath melted, when the blast 
Of the shrill clarion gives your heart no more 
A fiery wakening, — if at last you pine 
For the glad voices and the bounding steps 
Once through your home re-echoing, and the clasp 
Of twining arms, and all the joyous light [board 
Of eyes that laugh'd with youth, and made your 
A place of sunshine, — when those days are come, 
Then, in your utter desolation, turn 
To the cold world— '■the smiling, faithless world, 
Which hath swept past you long — and bid it quench 
Your soul's deep thirst with fame! immortal fame! 
Fame to the sick of heart ! — a gorgeous robe, 
A crown of victory, unto him that dies 
I' th' burning waste, for water ! 

Gon. This from thee! 
Now the last drop of bitterness is pour'd. 
Elmina — I forgive thee ! [Exit Elmina. 

Aid me, Heaven ! 
From whom alone is power ! Oh ! thou hast set 
Duties so stern of aspect in my path, 



They almost to my startled gaze assume 
The hue of things less hallow'd ! Men have sunk 
Unblamed beneath such trials ! Doth not He 
Who made us know the limits of our strength] 
My wife ! my sons ! Away ! I must not pause 
To give my heart one moment's mastery thus ! 

[Exit Gonzalez. 



Scene II. — The Aisle of a Gothic Church. 
Heknandez, Garcias, and Others. 

Her. The rites are closed. Now, valiant men ! 

depart, 
Each to his place — I may not say, of rest — 
Your faithful vigils for your sons may win 
What must not be your own. Ye are as those 
Who sow, in peril and in care, the seed 
Of the fair tree, beneath whose stately shade 
They may not sit. But bless'd be those who toil 
For after-days ! All high and holy thoughts 
Be with you, warriors ! through the lingering hours 
Of the night-watch. 

Gar. Ay, father ! we have need 
Of high and holy thoughts, wherewith to fence 
Our hearts against despair. Yet have I been 
From youth a son of war. The stars have look'd 
A thousand times upon my couch of heath, 
Spread midst the wild sierras, by some stream 
Whose dark-red waves look'd e'en as though their 

source 
Lay not in rocky caverns, but the veins 
Of noble hearts ; while many a knightly crest 
Roll'd with them to the deep. And, in the years 
Of my long exile and captivity, 
With the fierce Arab I have watch'd beneath 
The still, pale shadow of some lonely palm, 
At midnight in the desert ; while the wind 
Swell'd with the lion's roar, and heavily 
The fearfulness and might of solitude 
Press'd on my weary heart. 

Her. {thoughtfully.) Thou little know'st 
Of what is solitude ! I tell thee, those 
For whom — in earth's remotest nook, howe'er 
Divided from their path by chain on chain 
Of mighty mountains, and the amplitude 
Of rolling seas — there beats one human heart, 
Their breathes one being, unto whom their name 
Comes with a thrilling and a gladd'ning sound 
Heard o'er the din of life, are not alone ! 
Not on the deep, nor in the wild, alone ; 
For there is that on earth with which they hold 
A brotherhood of soul ! Call him alone, 
Who stands shut out from this ! — and let not those 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



269 



Whose homes are bright with sunshine and with 

love, 
Put on the insolence of happiness, 
Glorying in that proud lot ! A lonely hour 
Is on its way to each, to all ; for Death 
Knows no companionship. 

Gar. I have look'd on Death 
In field, and storm, and flood. But never yet 
Hath aught weigh'd down my spirit to a mood 
Of sadness, dreaming o'er dark auguries, 
Like this, our watch by midnight. Fearful things 
Are gathering round us. Death upon the earth, 
Omens in heaven ! The summer skies put forth 
No clear bright stars above us, but at times, 
Catching some comet's fiery hue of wrath, 
Marshal their clouds to armies, traversing 
Heaven with the rush of meteor-steeds — th' array 
Of spears and banners tossing like the pines 
Of Pyrenean forests, when the storm 
Doth sweep the mountains. 

Her. Ay, last night I too 
Kept vigil, gazing on the angry heavens ; 
And I beheld the meeting and the shock 
Of those wild hosts i' th' air, when, as they closed, 
A red and sultry mist, like that which mantles 
The thunder's path, fell o'er them. Then were 

flung 
Through the dull glare, broad cloudy banners forth ; 
And chariots seem'd to whirl, and steeds to sink, 
Bearing down crested warriors. But all this 
Was dim and shadowy; then swift darkness rush'd 
Down on th' unearthly battle, as the deep 
Swept o'er the Egyptian's armament. I look'd, 
And all that fiery field of plumes and spears 
Was blotted from heaven's face ! I look'd again, 
And from the brooding mass of cloud leap'd forth 
One meteor-sword,- which o'er the reddening sea 
Shook with strange motion, such as earthquakes 

give 
Unto a rocking citadel ! I beheld, 
And yet my spirit sank not. 

Gar. Neither deem [and sounds 

That mine hath blench'd. But these are sights 
To awe the firmest. Know'st thou what we hear 
At midnight from the walls 1 Were't but the deep 
Barbaric horn, or Moorish tambour's peal, 
Thence might the warrior's heart catch impulses 
Quickening its fiery currents. But our ears 
Are pierced by other tones. We hear the knell 
For brave men in their noon of strength cut down, 
And the shrill wail of woman, and the dirge [air 
Faint swelling through the streets. Then e'en the 
Hath strange and fitful murmurs of lament, 
As if the viewless watchers of the land 



Sigh'd on its hollow breezes ! To my soul 
The torrent-rush of battle, with its din 
Of trampling steeds and ringing panoply, 
Were, after these faint sounds of drooping woe, 
As the free sky's glad music unto him 
Who leaves a couch of sickness. 

Her. (with solemnity.) If to plunge 
In the mid waves of combat, as they bear 
Chargers and spearmen onwards, and to make 
A reckless bosom's front the buoyant mark, 
On that wild current, for ten thousand arrows — 
If thus to dare were valour's noblest aim, 
Lightly might fame be won ! But there are things, 
Which ask a spirit of more exalted pitch, 
And courage temper'd with a holier fire. 
Well may'st thou say that these are fearful times; 
Therefore, be firm, be patient ! There is strength, 
And a fierce instinct, e'en in common souls, 
To bear up manhood with a stormy joy, 
When red swords meet in lightning ! But our task 
Is more and nobler ! We have to endure, 
And to keep watch, and to arouse a land, 
And to defend an altar ! If we fall, 
So that our blood make but the millionth part 
Of Spain's great ransom, we may count it joy 
To die upon her bosom, and beneath 
The banner of her faith ! Think but on this, 
And gird your hearts with silent fortitude, 
Suffering, yet hoping all things. Fare ye well. 

Gar. Father, farewell. 

[Exeunt Gaectas and his followers. 

Her. These men have earthly ties 
And bondage on their natures ! To the cause 
Of God, and Spain's revenge, they bring but half 
Their energies and hopes. But he whom heaven 
Hath call'd to be th' awakener of a land, 
Should have his soul's affections all absorb'd 
In that majestic purpose, and press on 
To its fulfilment — as a mountain-born 
And mighty stream, with all its vassal rills, 
Sweeps proudly to the ocean, pausing not 
To dally with the flowers. Hark ! what quick step 
Comes hurrying through the gloom, at this dead 
hour 1 ? 

Elmina enters. 

Mm. Are not all hours as one to misery ? Why 
Should she take note of time, for whom the day 
And night have lost their blessed attributes 
Of sunshine and repose 1 

Her. I know thy griefs ; 
But there are trials for the noble heart, 
Wherein its own deep fountains must supply 



270 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



All it can hope of comfort. Pity's voice 
Comes with, vain sweetness to th' unheeding ear 
Of anguish, e'en as music heard afar 
On the green shore, by him who perishes 
Midst rocks and eddying waters. 

Elm. Think thou not 
I sought thee but for pity. I am come 
For that which grief is privileged to demand 
With an imperious claim, from all whose form — 
Whose human form, doth seal them unto suffering ! 
Father ! I ask thine aid. 

Her. There is no aid 
For thee or for thy children, but with Him 
Whose presence is around us in the cloud, 
As in the shining and the glorious light. 

Elm. There is no aid ! Art thou a man of God? 
Art thou a man of sorrow/? — for the world 
Doth call thee such ; — and hast thou not been taught 
By God and sorrow — mighty as they are — 
To own the claims of misery 1 

Her. Is there power 
With me to save thy sons ? — implore of heaven ! 

Elm. Doth not heaven work its purposes by man 1 
I tell thee thou canst save them ! Art thou not 
Gonzalez' counsellor 1 Unto him thy words 
Are e'en as oracles 

Her. And therefore ? Speak ! — 
The noble daughter of Pelayo's line 
Hath naught to ask unworthy of the name 
Which is a nation's heritage. Dost thou shrink ? 

Elm. Have pity on me, father ! I must speak 
That, from the thought of which but yesterday 
I had recoil'd in scorn ! But this is past. 
Oh ! we grow humble in our agonies, 
And to the dust — their birthplace — bow the heads 
That wore the crown of glory ! I am weak — 
My chastening is far more than I can bear. 

Her. These are no times for weakness. On our 
hills 
The ancient cedars, in their gather'd might, 
Are battling with the tempest, and the flower 
Which cannot meet its driving blast must die. 
But thou hast drawn thy nurture from a stem 
Unwont to bend or break. Lift thy proud head, 
Daughter of Spain ! — what wouldst thou with thy 
lord] 

Elm. Look not upon me thus ! I have no power 
To tell thee. Take thy keen disdainful eye 
Off from my soul ! What ! am I sunk to this ? 
I, whose blood sprung from heroes ! How my sons 
Will scorn the mother that would bring disgrace 
On their majestic line ! My sons ! my sons ! 
— Now is all else forgotten ! I had once 
A babe that in the early spring-time lay 



Sickening upon my bosom, till at last, [sun, 

When earth's young flowers were opening to the 
Death sank on his meek eyelid, and I deem'd 
All sorrow light to mine ! But now the fate 
Of all my children seems to brood above me 
In the dark thunder-clouds ! Oh ! I have power 
And voice unfaltering now to speak my prayer 
And my last lingering hope, that thou shouldst win 
The father to relent, to save his sons ! 

Her. By yielding up the city ] 

Elm. Bather say 
By meeting that which gathers close upon us, 
Perchance one day the sooner ! Is't not so 1 
Must we not yield at last 1 How long shall man 
Array his single breast against disease, 
And famine, and the sword? 

Her. How long 1 While He 
Who shadows forth his power more gloriously 
In the high deeds and sufferings of the soul, 
Than in the circling heavens with all their stars, 
Or the far-sounding deep, doth send abroad 
A spirit, which takes affliction for its mate, 
In the good cause, with solemn joy ! How long ?- 
— And who art thou that, in the littleness 
Of thine own selfish purpose, wouldst set bounds 
To the free current of all noble thought 
And generous action, bidding its bright waves 
Be stay'd, and flow no farther ? But the Power 
Whose interdict is laid on seas and orbs, 
To chain them in from wandering, hath assign'd 
No limits unto that which man's high strength 
Shall, through its aid, achieve ! 

Elm. Oh ! there are times, 
When all that hopeless courage can achieve 
But sheds a mournful beauty o'er the fate 
Of those who die in vain. 

Her. Who dies in vain 
Upon his country's war-fields, and within 
The shadow of her altars ? Feeble heart ! 
I tell thee that the voice of noble blood, 
Thus pour'd for faith and freedom, hath a tone 
Which, from the night of ages, from the gulf 
Of death, shall burst, and make its high appeal 
Sound unto earth and heaven ! Ay, let the land, 
Whose sons through centuries of woe have striven, 
And perish'd by her temples, sink awhile, 
Borne down in conflict ! But immortal seed 
Deep, by heroic suffering, hath been sown 
On all her ancient hills, and generous hope 
Knows that the soil, in its good time, shall yet 
Bring forth a glorious harvest ! Earth receives 
Not one red drop from faithful hearts in vain. 

Elm. Then it must be ! And ye will make 
those lives, 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



271 



Those young bright lives, an offering — to retard 
Our doom one day ! 

Her. The mantle of that day 
May wrap the fate of Spain ! 

Elm. What led me here 1 
Why did I turn to thee in my despair 1 
Love hath no ties upon thee ; what had I 
To hope from thee, thou lone and childless man 1 
Go to thy silent home ! — there no young voice 
Shall bid thee welcome, no light footstep spring 
Forth at the sound of thine ! What knows thy 
heart 1 [my woes ] 

Her. Woman ! how darest thou taunt me with 
Thy children, too, shall perish, and I say [them 1 
It shall be well ! Why takest thou thought for 
Wearing thy heart, and wasting down thy life 
Unto its dregs, and making night thy time 
Of care yet more intense, and casting health 
Unprized to melt away i' th' bitter cup 
Thou minglest for thyself ] Why, what hath earth 
To pay thee back for this 1 Shall they not live 
(If the sword spare them now) to prove how soon 
All love may be forgotten 1 Years of thought, 
Long faithful watchings, looks of tenderness, 
That changed not, though to change be this world's 
law— [blood 

Shall they not flush thy cheek with shame, whose 
Marks e'en like branding iron 1 to thy sick heart 
Make death a want, as sleep to weariness ] 
Doth not all hope end thus 1 or e'en at best, 
Will they not leave thee 1 far from thee seek room 
For the o'erflowings of their fiery souls 
On life's wide ocean 1 Give the bounding steed 
Or the wing'd bark to youth, that his free course 
May be o'er hills and seas ; and weep thou not 
In thy forsaken home, for the bright world 
Lies all before him, and be sure he wastes 
No thought on thee ! 

Elm. Not so ! it is not so ! 
Thou dost but torture me ! My sons are kind, 
And brave, and gentle. 

Her. Others, too, have worn 
The semblance of all good. Nay, stay thee yet ; 
I will be calm, and thou shalt learn how earth, 
The fruitful in all agonies, hath woes 
Which far outweigh thine own. 

Elm. It may not be ! 
Whose grief is like a mother's for her sons ? 

Her. My son lay stretch'd upon his battle-bier, 
And there were hands wrung o'er him which had 

caught 
Their hue from his young blood ! 

Elm. What tale is this 1 

Her. Read you no records in this mien, of things 



Whose traces on man's aspect are not such 
As the breeze leaves on water ? Lofty birth, 
War, peril, power % Affliction's hand is strong, 
If it erase the haughty characters 
They grave so deep ! I have not always been 
That which I am. The name I bore is not 
Of those which perish ! I was once a chief — 
A warrior — nor as now, a lonely man ! 
I was a father ! 

Elm. Then thy heart can feel ! 
Thou wilt have pity ! 

Her. Should I pity thee ? 
Thy sons will perish gloriously — their blood 

Elm. Their blood! my children's blood! Thou 
speak'st as 'twere 
Of casting down a wine-cup, in the mirth 
And wantonness of feasting ! My fair boys ! 
— Man ! hast thou been a father ] 

Her. Let them die ! 
Let them die now, thy children ! so thy heart 
Shall wear their beautiful image all undimm'd 
Within it, to the last ! Nor shalt thou learn 
The bitter lesson, of what worthless dust 
Are framed the idols whose false glory binds 
Earth's fetter on our souls ! Thou think' st it much 
To mourn the early dead ; but there are tears 
Heavy with deeper anguish ! We endow [ness, 
Those whom we love, in our fond passionate blind- 
With power upon our souls, too absolute 
To be a mortal's trust ! Within their hands 
We lay the flaming sword, whose stroke alone 
Can reach our hearts ; and they are merciful, 
As they are strong, that wield it not to pierce us ! 
Ay, fear them ! fear the loved ! Had I but wept 
O'er my son's grave, or o'er a babe's, where tears 
Are as spring dew-drops, glittering in the sun, 
And brightening the young verdure, / might still 
Have loved and trusted ! 

Elm. (disdainfully.) But he fell in war ! 
And hath not glory medicine in her cup 
For the brief pangs of nature ? 

Her. Glory ! — Peace, 
And listen ! By my side the stripling grew, 
Last of my line. I rear'd him to take joy 
F th' blaze of arms, as eagles train their young 
To look upon the day-king ! His quick blood 
Even to his boyish cheek would mantle up, 
When the heavens rang with trumpets, and his eye 
Flash with the spirit of a race whose deeds — 
— But this availeth not ! Yet he was brave. 
I've seen him clear himself a path in fight 
As lightning through a forest ; and his plume 
Waved like a torch above the battle-storm, 
The soldier's guide, when princely crests had sunk, 



272 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



And banners were struck down. Around my 
Floated his fame, like music, and I lived 
But in the lofty sound. But when my heart 
In one frail ark had ventured all, when most 
He seem'd to stand between my soul and heaven, 
— Then came the thunder-stroke ! 

Elm. 'Tis ever thus ! 
And the unquiet and foreboding sense 
That thus 'twill ever be, doth link itself 
Darkly with all deep love ! He died ] 

Her. Not so ! [dise, 

— Death ! Death ! Why, earth should be a para- 
To make that name so fearful ! Had he died, 
With his young fame about him for a shroud, 
I had not learn'd the might of agony 
To bring proud natures low ! No ! he fell off- 
Why do I tell thee this 1 what right hast thou 
To learn how pass'd the glory from my house ] 
Yet listen ! He forsook me ! He, that was 
As mine own soul, forsook me ! trampled o'er 
The ashes of his sires ! ay, leagued himself 
E'en with the infidel, the curse of Spain ; 
And, for the dark eye of a Moorish maid, 
Abjured his faith, his God ! Now, talk of death ! 

Elm. Oh ! I can pity thee 

Her. There's more to hear. 
I braced the corslet o'er my heart's deep wound, 
And cast my troubled spirit on the tide 
Of war and high events, whose stormy waves 
Might bear it up from sinking ; 

Elm. And ye met 
No more? 

Her. Be still ! We did ! we met once more. 
God had his own high purpose to fulfil, 
Or think'st thou that the sun in his bright heaven 
Had look'd upon, such things ] We met once more. 
That was an hour to leave its lightning-mark 
Sear'd upon brain and bosom ! There had been 
Combat on Ebro's banks, and when the day 
Sank in red clouds, it faded from a field 
Still held by Moorish lances. Night closed round — 
A night of sultry darkness, in the shadow 
Of whose broad wing, e'en unto death, I strove 
Long with a turban'd champion ; but my sword 
Was heavy with God's vengeance — and prevail'd. 
He fell — my heart exulted — and I stood 
In gloomy triumph o'er him. Nature gave 
No sign of horror, for 'twas Heaven's decree ! 
He strove to speak — but I had done the work 
Of wrath too well ; yet in his last deep moan 
A dreadful something of familiar sound [forth, 
Came o'er my shuddering sense. The moon look'd 
And I beheld — speak not ! — twas he — my son ! 
My boy lay dying there ! He raised one glance 



And knew me — for he sought with feeble hand 
To cover his glazed eyes. A darker veil 
Sank o'er them soon. I will not have thy look 
Fix'd on me thus ! Away ! 

Elm. Thou hast seen this, 
Thou hast done this — and yet thou liv'st ? 

Her. I live ! [fell 

And know'st thou wherefore 1 On my soul there 
A horror of great darkness, which shut out 
All earth, and heaven, and hope. I cast away 
The spear and helm, and made the cloister's shade 
The home of my despair. But a deep voice 
Came to me through the gloom, and sent its tones 
Far through my bosom's depths. And I awoke ; 
Ay, as the mountain-cedar doth shake off 
Its weight of wintry snow, e'en so I shook 
Despondence from my soul, and knew myself 
Seal'd by that blood wherewith my hands were 

dyed, 
And set apart, and fearfully mark'd out 
Unto a mighty task ! To rouse the soul 
Of Spain as from the dead ; and to lift up 
The Cross, her sign of victory, on the hills, 
Gathering her sons to battle ! And my voice 
Must be as freedom's trumpet on the winds, 
From Roncesvalles to the blue sea-waves 
Where Calpe looks on Afric ; till the land 
Have fill'd her cup of vengeance ! Ask me now 
To yield the Christian city, that its fanes 
May rear the minaret in the face of heaven ! — 
But death shall have a bloodier vintage-feast 
Ere that day come ! 

Elm. I ask thee this no more, 
For I am hopeless now. But yet one boon — 
Hear me, by all thy woes ! Thy voice hath power 
Through the wide city : here I cannot rest — 
Aid me to pass the gates ! 

Her. And wherefore 1 

Elm. Thou, 
That wert a father, and art now — alone ! [sands 
Canst thou ask "wherefore?" Ask the wretch whose 
Have not an hour to run, whose failing limbs 
Have but one earthly journey to perform, 
Why, on his pathway to the place of death, 
Ay, when the very axe is glistening cold 
Upon his dizzy sight, his pale, parch'd lip 
Implores a cup of water ] Why, the stroke 
Which trembles o'er him in itself shall bring 
Oblivion of all wants, yet who denies 
Nature's last prayer ] I tell thee that the thirst 
Which burns my spirit up is agony 
To be endured no more ! And I must look 
Upon my children's faces, I must hear 
Their voices, ere they perish ! But hath heaven 






THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



273 



Decreed that they must perish ] Who shall say 
If in yon Moslem camp there beats no heart 
Which prayers and tears may melt 1 

Her. There ! — with the Moor ! 
Let him fill up the measure of his guilt ! [array 
— 'Tis madness all! How wouldst thou pass th' 
Of armed foes 1 

Elm. Oh ! free doth sorrow pass, 
Free and unquestion'd, through a suffering world ! 1 

Her. This must not be. Enough of woe is laid 
E'en now upon thy lord's heroic soul, 
For man to bear, unsinking. Press thou not 
Too heavily th' o'erburthen'd heart. Away ! 
Bow down the knee, and send thy prayers for 

strength 
Up to heaven's gate. Farewell ! 

[Exit Hernandez. 

Elm. Are all men thus ] 
— Why, were 't not better they should fall e'en now 
Than live to shut their hearts, in haughty scorn, 
Against the sufferer's pleadings 1 But no, no ! 
Who can be like this man, that slew his son, 
Yet wears his life still proudly, and a soul 
Untamed upon his brow ? 

„ (After a pause.) There's one, whose arms 
Have borne my children in their infancy, 
And on whose knees they sported, and whose hand 
Hath led them oft — a vassal of their sire's ; 
And I will seek him : he may lend me aid, 
When all beside pass on. 

DIRGE, (heard without.) 

Thou to thy rest art gone, 
High heart ! and what are we, 
While o'er our heads the storm sweeps on, 
That we should mourn for thee 1 

Free grave and peaceful bier 
To the buried son of Spain ! 
To those that live, the lance and spear, 
And well if not the chain ! 

Be theirs to weep the dead, 
As they sit beneath their vines, 
Whose flowery land hath borne no tread 
Of spoilers o'er its shrines ! 

Thou hast thrown off the load 
Which we must yet sustain, 
And pour our blood where thine hath flow'd, 
Too blest if not in vain ! 

i " prey geht das Ungluck durch die ganze Erde." 

Schiller's Death of Wallenstein, act iv. sc. 2. 



We give thee holy rite, 
Slow knell, and chanted strain ! 
— For those that fall to-morrow night, 
May be left no funeral-train. 

Again, when trumpets wake, 
We must brace our armour on ; 
But a deeper note thy sleep must break — 
Thou to thy rest art gone ! 

Happier in this than all, 
That, now thy race is run, 
Upon thy name no stain may fall, 
Thy work hath well been done ! 

Elm. " Thy work hath well been done ! " — so 
thou may'st rest ! 
— There is a solemn lesson in those words — 
But now I may not pause. [Exit Elmina. 



Scene III. — A Street in the City. 
Hernandez, Gonzalez. 

Her. Would they not hear ? 

Gon. They heard, as one that stands 
By the cold grave, which hath but newly closed 
O'er his last friend, doth hear some passer-by 
Bid him be comforted ! Their hearts have died 
Within them ! We must perish, not as those 
That fall when battle's voice doth shake the hills, 
And peal through heaven's great arch, but silently, 
And with a wasting of the spirit down, 
A quenching, day by day, of some bright spark, 
Which lit us on our toils ! Beproach me not ; 
My soul is darken'd with a heavy cloud — 
Yet fear not I shall yield ! 

Her. Breathe not the word, 
Save in proud scorn ! Each bitter day o'erpass'd 
By slow endurance, is a triumph won 
For Spain's red Cross. And be of trusting heart ! 
A few brief hours, and those that turn'd away 
In cold despondence, shrinking from your voice, 
May crowd around their leader, and demand 
To be array'd for battle. We must watch 
For the swift impulse, and await its time, 
As the bark waits the ocean's. You have chosen 
To kindle up their souls, an hour, perchance, 
When they were weary ; they had cast aside 
Their arms to slumber ; or a knell, just then, 
With its deep hollow tone, had made the blood 
Creep shuddering through their veins; or they 

had caught 
A glimpse of some new meteor, and shaped forth 



274 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Strange omens from its blaze. 

Gon. Alas ! the cause 
Lies deeper, in their misery ! I have seen, 
In my night's course through this beleaguer'd city, 
Things whose remembrance doth not pass away 
As vapours from the mountains. There were some, 
That sat beside their dead, with eyes wherein 
Grief had ta'en place of sight, and shut out all 
But its own ghastly object. To my voice 
Some answer'd with a fierce and bitter laugh, 
As men whose agonies were made to pass 
The bounds of sufferance, by some reckless word, 
Dropt from the light of spirit. Others lay — 
— Why should I tell thee, father ! how despair 
Can bring the lofty brow of manhood down 
Unto the very dust ] And yet for this, 
Fear not that I embrace my doom — God ! 
That 'twere my doom alone ! — with less of fix'd 
And solemn fortitude. Lead on, prepare 
The holiest rites of faith, that I by them 
Once more may consecrate my sword, my life ; 
— But what are these % Who hath not dearer lives 
Twined with his own ! I shall be lonely soon- 
Childless ! Heaven wills it so. Let us begone. 
Perchance before the shrine my heart may beat 
With a less troubled motion. 

[Exeimt Gonzalez and Hernandez. 



Scene IV.— A Tent in the Moorish Camp. 
Abdullah, Alphonso, Carlos. 

Abd. These are bold words : but hast thou 
look'd on death, 
Fair stripling ? On thy cheek and sunny brow 
Scarce fifteen summers of their laughing course 
Have left light traces. If thy shaft hath pierced 
The ibex of the mountains, if thy step 
Hath climb'd some eagle's nest, and thou hast made 
His nest thy spoil, 'tis much ! And fear'st thou not 
The leader of the mighty ? 

Alph. I have been 
Rear'd amongst fearless men, and midst the rocks 
And the wild hills, whereon my fathers fought 
And won their battles. There are glorious tales 
Told of their deeds, and I have learn'd them all. 
How should I fear thee, Moor ? 

Aid. So, thou hast seen 
Fields, where the combat's roar hath died away 

1 Tecbir, the war-cry of the Moors and Arabs. 

2 Tizona, the fire-brand. The name of the Cid's favourite 
sword, taken in battle from the Moorish king Bucar. 

3 Valencia, which has been repeatedly besieged and taken 
by the armies of different nations, remained in possession of 



Into the whispering breeze, and where wild flowers 
Bloom o'er forgotten graves ! But know'st thou 

aught 
Of those, where sword from crossing sword strikes 

fire, 
And leaders are borne down, and rushing steeds 
Trample the life from out the mighty hearts 
That ruled the storm so late 1 — Speak not of death 
Till thou hast look'd on such. 

Alph. I was not born 
A shepherd's son, to dwell with pipe and crook, 
And peasant men, amidst the lowly vales ; 
Instead of ringing clarions, and bright spears, 
And crested knights ! I am of princely race ; 
And, if my father would have heard my suit. 
I tell thee, infidel, that long ere now 
I should have seen how lances meet, and swords 
Do the field's work. 

Abd. Boy ! — know'st thou there are sights 
A thousand times more fearful ] Men may die 
Full proudly, when the skies and mountains ring 
To battle-horn and tecbir. 1 But not all 
So pass away in glory. There are those, 
Midst the dead silence of pale multitudes, 
Led forth in fetters — dost thou mark me, boy 1 ? — 
To take their last look of th' all-gladdening sun, 
And bow, perchance, the stately head of youth 
Unto the death of shame ! — Hadst thou seen 

this 

Alph. (to Carlos.) Sweet brother, God is with us 

— fear thou not ! 
We have had heroes for our sires : — this man 
Should not behold us tremble. 

Abd. There are means 
To tame the loftiest natures. Yet again 
I ask thee, wilt thou, from beneath the walls, 
Sue to thy sire for life 1 — or would'st thou die 
With this thy brother 1 

Alph. Moslem ! on the hills, 
Around my father's castle, I have heard 
The mountain-peasants, as they dress'd the vines, 
Or drove the goats, by rock and torrent, home, 
Singing their ancient songs ; and these were all 
Of the Cid Campeador ; and how his sword 
Tizona 2 clear'd its way through turban'd hosts, 
And captured Afric's kings, and how he won 
Valencia from the Moor. 3 I will not shame 
The blood we draw from him ! 

[A Moorish soldier enters. 

the Moors for a hundred and seventy years after the Cid's 
death. It was regained from them by King Don Jayme of 
Aragon, surnamed the Conqueror; after whose success I 
have ventured to suppose it governed by a descendant of the 
Campeador. 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



275 



Sol. Valencia's lord 
Sends messengers, my chief. 

Abd. Conduct them hither. 

[The soldier goes out and re-enters with 
Elmina, disguised, and an attendant. 

Car. (springing forward to the attendant.) 
Oh ! take me hence, Diego ! take me hence 
"With thee, that I may see my mother's face 
At morning when I wake. Here dark-brow'd men 
Frown strangely, with their cruel eyes, upon us. 
Take me with thee, for thou art good and kind, 
And well I know thou lov'st me, my Diego ! 

Abd. Peace, boy ! — What tidings, Christian, 
from thy lord ?- 
Is he grown humbler 1 — doth he set the lives 
Of these fair nurslings at a city's worth ? 

Alph. (rushing forward impatiently.) Say not he 
doth ! — Yet wherefore art thou here 1 
If it be so, I could weep burning tears 
For very shame ! If this can be, return ! 
Tell him, of all his wealth, his battle-spoils, 
I will but ask a war-horse and a sword, 
And that beside him in the mountain-chase, 
And in his halls, and at his stately feasts, 



My place shall be no more ! But no ! — I wrong, 
I wrong my father ! Moor, believe it not : 
He is a champion of the Cross and Spain, 
Sprung from the Cid ! — and I, too, I can die 
As a warrior's high-born child ! 

Elm. Alas, alas ! 
And wouldst thou die, thus early die, fair boy 1 
What hath life done to thee, that thou shouldst 

cast 
Its flower away, in very scorn of heart, 
Ere yet the blight be come ? 

Alph. That voice doth sound 

Abd. Stranger, who art thou ? — this is mockery ! 
speak ! 

Elm. (throwing off a mantle and helmet, and em- 
bracing her sons.) 
My boys ! whom I have rear'd through many hours 
Of silent joys and sorrows, and deep thoughts 
Untold and unimagined ; let me die 
With you, now I have held you to my heart, 
And seen once more the faces, in whose light 
My soul hath lived for years ! 

Car. Sweet mother ! now 
Thou shalt not leave us more. 

Abd. Enough of this ! 
Woman ! what seek'st thou here 1 How hast thou 

dared 
To front the mighty thus amidst his hosts 1 

Elm. Think'st thou there dwells no courage 
but in breasts 



That set their mail against the ringing spears, 
When helmets are struck down? Thou little 

know'st 
Of nature's marvels. Chief ! my heart is nerved 
To make its way through things which warrior 

men, 
Ay, they that master death by field or flood, 
Would look on, ere they braved ! I have no 

thought, 
No sense of fear ! Thou'rt mighty ! but a soul 
Wound up like mine is mightier, in the power 
Of that one feeling pour'd through all its depths, 
Than monarchs with their hosts ? Am I not come 
To die with these my children 1 

Abd. Doth thy faith 
Bid thee do this, fond Christian ] Hast thou not 
The means to save them ? 

Elm. I have prayers, and tears, 
And agonies ! — and he, my God — the God 
Whose hand, or soon or late, doth find its hour 
To bow the crested head — hath made these things 
Most powerful in a world where all must learn 
That one deep language, by the storm call'd forth 
From the bruised reeds of earth ! For thee, per- 
chance, 
Affliction's chastening lesson hath not yet 
Been laid upon thy heart ; and thou may'st love 
To see the creatures, by its might brought low, 
Humbled before thee. 

[She throws herself at his feet. 
Conqueror, I can kneel ! 
I, that drew birth from princes, bow myself 
E'en to thy feet ! Call in thy chiefs, thy slaves, 
If this will swell thy triumph, to behold 
The blood of kings, of heroes, thus abased ! 
Do this, but spare my sons ! [not kneel 

A Iph. (attempting to raise her) Thou shouldst 
Unto this infidel ! Bise, rise, my mother ! 
This sight doth shame our house ! 

Abd. Thou daring boy ! 
They that in arms have taught thy father's land 
How chains are worn, shall school that haughty 

mien 
Unto another language. 

Elm. Peace, my son ! 
Have pity on my heart ! Oh, pardon, chief ! 
He is of noble blood. Hear, hear me yet ! 
Are there no lives through which the shafts of 
heaven [earth, 

May reach your soul? He that loves aught on 
Dares far too much, if he be merciless ! 
Is it for those, whose frail mortality 
Must one day strive alone with God and death, 
To shut their souls against th' appealing voice 



276 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Of nature, in her anguish. 1 Warrior, man, 
To you, too, ay, and haply with your hosts, 
By thousands and ten thousands marshall'd round, 
And your strong armour on, shall come that stroke 
Which the lance wards not ! Where shall your 

high heart 
Find refuge then, if in the day of might 
Woe hath lain prostrate, bleeding at your feet, 
And you have pitied not 1 

Abd. These are vain words. 

Elm. Haveyouno children? — fear ye not to bring 
The lightning on their heads ? In your own land 
Doth no fond mother, from the tents beneath 
Your native palms, look o'er the deserts out, 
To greet your homeward step ? You have not yet 
Forgot so utterly her patient love — 
For is not woman's in all climes the same 1 — [eye 
That you should scorn my prayer ! Oh heaven ! his 
Doth wear no mercy ! 

Abd. Then it mocks you not. 
I have swept o'er the mountains of your land, 
Leaving my traces, as the visitings 
Of storms upon them ! Shall I now be stay'd 1 
Know, unto me it were as light a thing, 
In this my course, to quench your children's lives, 
As, journeying through a forest, to break off 
The young wild branches that obstruct the way 
With their green sprays and leaves. 

Elm. Are there such hearts 
Amongst thy works, God 1 

Abd. Kneel not to me. 
Kneel to your lord ! on his resolves doth hang 
His children's doom. He may be lightly won 
By a few bursts of passionate tears and words. 

Elm. {rising indignantly.) Speak not of noble 
men ! He bears a soul 
Stronger than love or death. 

Alph. {with exultation) I knew 'twas thus ! 
He could not fail ! 

Elm. There is no mercy, none, 
On this cold earth ! To strive with such a world, 
Hearts should be void of love ! We will go hence, 
My children ! we are summon'd. Lay your heads, 
In their young radiant beauty, once again 
To rest upon this bosom. He that dwells 
Beyond the clouds which press us darkly round, 
Will yet have pity, and before His face 
We three will stand together ! Moslem ! now 
Let the stroke fall at once ! 

Abd. 'Tis thine own will. 
These might e'en yet be spared. 

Elm. Thou wilt not spare ! 
And he beneath whose eye their childhood grew, 
And in whose paths they sported, and whose ear 



From their first lisping accents caught the sound 
Of that word — Father — once a name of love — 
Is Men shall call him steadfast. 

Abd. Hath the blast 
Of sudden trumpets ne'er at dead of night, 
When the land's watchers fear'd no hostile step, 
Startled the slumberers from their dreamy world, 
In cities, whose heroic lords have been 
Steadfast as thine 1 

Elm. There's meaning in thine eye, 
More than thy words. [and walls ! 

Abd. (pointing to the city.) Look to yon towers 
Think you no hearts within their limits pine, 
Weary of hopeless warfare, and prepared 
To burst the feeble links which bind them still 
Unto endurance. 

Elm. Thou hast said too well. 
But what of this 1 

Abd. Then there are those, to whom 
The Prophet's armies not as foes would pass 
Yon gates, but as deliverers. Might they not 
In some still hour, when weariness takes rest, 
Be won to welcome us 1 Your children's steps 
May yet bound lightly through their father's halls ! 

A Iph. (indignantly.) Thou treacherous Moor ! 

Elm. Let me not thus be tried 
Beyond all strength, heaven ! 

Abd. Now, 'tis for thee, 
Thou Christian mother ! on thy sons to pass 
The sentence — life or death ! The price is set 
On their young blood, and rests within thy hands. 

Alph. Mother ! thou tremblest ! 

Abd. Hath thy heart resolved? 

Elm. (covering her face with her hands) 
My boy's proud eye is on me, and the things 
Which rush in stormy darkness through my soul 
Shrink from his glance. I cannot answer here. 

Abd. Come forth. We'll commune elsewhere. 

Car. (to his mother.) Wilt thou go 1 
Oh ! let me follow thee ! 

Elm. Mine own fair child ! [mine 

Now that thine eyes have pour'd once more on 
The light of their young smile, and thy sweet voice 
Hath sent its gentle music through my soul, 
And I have felt the twining of thine arms — 
How shall I leave thee ? 

Abd. Leave him, as 'twere but 
For a brief slumber, to behold his face 
At morning, with the sun's. 

Alph. Thou hast no look 
For me, my mother ! 

Elm. Oh ! that I should live 
To say, I dare not look on thee ! Farewell, 
My first-born, fare thee well ! 



, 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



277 



Alph. Yet, yet beware ! 
It were a grief more heavy on thy soul, 
That I should blush for thee, than o'er my grave 
That thou shouldst proudly weep ! [fast. 

Abd. Away ! we trifle here. The night wanes 
Come forth ! 

Elm. One more embrace ! My sons, farewell ! 

[Exeunt Abdullah with Elmina and 

her Attendant. 

[gone ? 

Alph. Hear me yet once, my mother ! Art thou 

But one word more ! 

[Be rushes out, followed by Carlos. 



Scene V. — The Garden of a Palace in Valencia. 
Ximena, Theresa. 



Ther. Stay yet awhile. A purer air doth rove 
Here through the myrtles whispering, and the limes, 
And shaking sweetness from the orange boughs, 
Than waits you in the city. 

Xim. There are those 
In their last need, and on their bed of death, — 
At which no hand doth minister but mine, — 
That wait me in the city. Let us hence, [made 

Tlier. You have been wont to love the music 
By founts, and rustling foliage, and soft winds, 
Breathing of citron-groves. And will you turn 
From these to scenes of death 1 

Xim. To me the voice [leaves, 

Of summer, whispering through young flowers and 
Now speaks too deep a language ! and of all 
Its dreamy and mysterious melodies, 
The breathing soul is sadness ! I have felt 
That summons through my spirit, after which 
The hues of earth are changed, and all her sounds 
Seem fraught with secret warnings. There is cause 
That I should bend my footsteps to the scenes 
Where Death is busy, taming warrior-hearts, 
And pouring winter through the fiery blood, 
And fettering the strong arm ! For now no sigh 
In the dull air, nor floating cloud in heaven, 
No, not the lightest murmur of a leaf, 
But of his angel's silent coming bears 
Some token to my soul. But naught of this 
Unto my mother ! These are awful hours ! 
And on their heavy steps afflictions crowd 
With such dark pressure, there is left no room 
For one grief more. 

Ther. Sweet lady, talk not thus ! 
Your eye this morn doth wear a calmer light, 
There's more of life in its clear tremulous ray 
Than I have mark'd of late. Nay, go not yet ; 



Rest by this fountain, where the laurels dip 
Their glossy leaves. A fresher gale doth spring 
From the transparent waters, dashing round 
Their silvery spray, with a sweet voice of coolness, 
O'er the pale glistening marble. 'Twill call up 
Faint bloom, if but a moment's, to your cheek. 
Rest here, ere you go forth, and I will sing 
The melody you love. 

Theresa sings. 

Why is the Spanish maiden's grave 

So far from her own bright land ] 
The sunny flowers that o'er it wave 

Were sown by no kindred hand. 

'Tis not the orange-bough that sends 

Its breath on the sultry air, 
'Tis not the myrtle-stem that bends 

To the breeze of evening there ! 

But the rose of Sharon's eastern bloom 

By the silent dwelling fades, 
And none but strangers pass the tomb 

Which the palm of Judah shades. 

The lowly Cross, with flowers o'ergrown, 

Marks well that place of rest ; 
But who hath graved, on its mossy stone, 

A sword, a helm, a crest 1 

These are the trophies of a chief, 

A lord of the axe and spear ! 
— Some blossom pluck'd, some faded leaf, 

Should grace a maiden's bier ! 

Scorn not her tomb — deny not her 

The honours of the brave ! 
O'er that forsaken sepulchre 

Banner and plume might wave. 

She bound the steel, in battle tried, 

Her fearless heart above, 
And stood with brave men side by side, 

In the strength and faith of love ! 

That strength prevail'd — that faith was bless'd ! 

True was the javelin thrown, 
Yet pierced it not her warrior's breast — 

She met it with her own ! 

And nobly won, where heroes fell 

In arms for the holy shrine, 
A death which saved what she loved so well, 

And a grave in Palestine. 



278 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Then let the rose of Sharon spread 

Its breast to the glowing air, 
And the palm of Judah lift its head, 

Green and immortal there ! 

And let yon gray stone, undefaced, 

With its trophy mark the scene, 
Telling the pilgrim of the waste 

Where Love and Death have been. 

Xim. Those notes were wont to make my heart 
beat quick, 
As at a voice of victory; but to-day 
The spirit of the song is changed, and seems 
All mournful. Oh ! that, ere my early grave 
Shuts out the sunbeam, I might hear one peal 
Of the Castilian trumpet, ringing forth 
Beneath my father's banner ! In that sound 
Were life to you, sweet brothers ! — But for me — 
Come on — our tasks await us. They who know 
Their hours are number'd out, have little time 
To give the vague and slumberous languor way, 
Which doth steal o'er them in the breath of flowers, 
And whisper of soft winds. 

[Elmina enters hurriedly. 

Elm. The air will calm my spirit, ere yet I meet 

His eye, which must be met. — Thou here, Ximena! 

[She starts bach on seeing Ximena. 

Xim. Alas ! my mother ! in that hurrying step 
And troubled glance I read 

Mm. (wildly.) Thou read'st it not ! 
Why, who would live, if unto mortal eye 
The things lay glaring, which within our hearts 
We treasure up for God's ? Thou read'st it not ! 
I say, thou canst not ! There's not one on earth 
Shall know the thoughts, which for themselves 

have made 
And kept dark places in the very breast 
Whereon he hath laid his slumber, till the hour 
When the graves open ! 

Xim. Mother ! what is this ! 
Alas ! your eye is wandering, and your cheek 
Flush'd, as with fever ! To your woes the night 
Hath brought no rest. 

Mm. Rest ! — who should rest ? — not he 
That holds one earthly blessing to his heart 
Nearer than life ! No ! if this world have aught 
Of bright or precious, let not him, who calls 
Such things his own, take rest ! — Dark spirits 

keep watch; 
And they to whom fair honour, chivalrous fame, 
Were as heaven's air, the vital element [souls 
Wherein they breathed, may wake, and find their 
Made marks for human scorn ! Will they bear on 



With life struck down, and thus disrobed of all 
Its glorious drapery? Who shall tell us this? 
— Will he so bear it ? 

Xim. Mother ! let us kneel 
And blend our hearts in prayer ! What else is left 
To mortals when the dark hour's might is on them? 
— Leave us, Theresa. — Grief like this doth find 
Its balm in solitude. [Exit Theresa. 

My mother ! peace 
Is heaven's benignant answer to the cry 
Of wounded spirits. Wilt thou kneel with me 1 ? 

Mm. Away ! 'tis but for souls unstain'd, to wear 
Heaven's tranquil image on their depths. — The 

stream 
Of my dark thoughts, all broken by the storm, 
Reflects but clouds and lightnings ! — Didst thou 

speak 
Of peace ? — 'tis fled from earth ! But there is j oy ! 
Wild, troubled j oy ! And who shall know, my child, 
It is not happiness 1 ? Why, our own hearts 
Will keep the secret close ! Joy, joy ! if but 
To leave this desolate city, with its dull 
Slow knells and dirges, and to breathe again 
Th' untainted mountain-air! — But hush! the trees, 
The flowers, the waters, must hear naught of this! 

They are full of voices, and will whisper things 

— We'll speak of it no more. 

Xim. pitying heaven ! 
This grief doth shake her reason ! 

Mm. (starting.) Hark ! a step ! 
'Tis — 'tis thy father's ! Come away — not now — 
He must not see us now ! 

Xim. Why should this be ? 

[Gonzalez enters, and detains Elmina. 

Gon. Elmina, dost thou shun me? Have we not 
E'en from the hopeful and the sunny time 
When youth was as a glory round our brows, 
Held on through life together? And is this, 
When eve is gathering round us, with the gloom 
Of stormy clouds, a time to part our steps 
Upon the darkening wild ? 

Mm. (coldly.) There needs not this. 
Why shouldst thou think I shunn'd thee ? 

Gon. Should the love 
That shone o'er many years, th' unfading love, 
Whose only change hath been from gladdening 

smiles 
To mingling sorrows and sustaining strength, 
Thus lightly be forgotten ? 

Elm. Speak'st thou thus? 
— I have knelt before thee with that very plea, 
When it avail'd me not ! But there are things 
Whose very breathings from the soul erase 
All record of past love, save the chill sense, 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



279 



Th' unquiet memory of its wasted faith, 
And vain devotedness ! Ay ! they that fix 
Affection's perfect trust on aught of earth, 
Have many a dream to start from ! 

Gon. This is but 
The wildness and the bitterness of grief, 
Ere yet the unsettled heart hath closed its long 
Impatient conflicts with a mightier power, 
"Which makes all conflict vain. 

■ Hark ! was there not 

A sound of distant trumpets, far beyond 
The Moorish tents, and of another tone 
Than th' Afric horn, Ximena 1 

Xim. my father ! 
I know that horn too well. — 'Tis but the wind, 
Which, with a sudden rising, bears its deep 
And savage war-note from us, wafting it 
O'er the far hills. 

Gon. Alas ! this woe must be ! 
I do not shake my spirit from its height, 
So startling it with hope ! But the dread hour 
Shall be met bravely still. I can keep down 
Yet for a little while — and heaven will ask 
No more — the passionate workings of my heart 
— And thine, Elmina] 

Elm. 'Tis — I am prepared. 
I have prepared for all. 

Gon. Oh, well I knew 
Thou wouldst not fail me ! Not in vain my soul, 
Upon thy faith and courage, hath built up 
Unshaken trust. 

Elm. (wildly.) Away! — thou know'st me not! 
Man dares too far — his rashness would invest 
This our mortality with an attribute 
Too high and awful, boasting that he knows 
One human heart ! 

Gon. These are wild words, but yet 
I will not doubt thee ! Hast thou not been found 
Noble in all things, pouring thy soul's light 
Undimm'd o'er every trial] And, as our fates, 
So must our names be, undivided ! — Thine, 
I' th' record of a warrior's life, shall find 
Its place of stainless honour. By his side 

Elm. May this be borne ! How much of agony 
Hath the heart room for] Speak to me in wrath 
— I can endure it ! But no gentle words ! [slay, 
No words of love ! no praise ! Thy sword might 
And be more merciful ! 

Gon. Wherefore art thou thus ? 
Elmina, my beloved ! 

Elm. No more of love ! 
— Have I not said there's that within my heart, 
Whereon it falls as living fire would fall 
Upon an unclosed wound ] 



Gon. Nay, lift thine eyes, 
That I may read their meaning ! 

Elm. Never more [naught ! 

With a free soul. What have I said] — 'twas 
Take thou no heed ! The words of wretchedness 
Admit not scrutiny. Wouldst thou mark the speech 
Of troubled dreams] 

Gon. I have seen thee in the hour 
Of thy deep spirit's joy, and when the breath 
Of grief hung chilling round thee; in all change, 
Bright health and drooping sickness; hope and fear; 
Youth and decline ; but never yet, Elmina, 
Ne'er hath thine eye till now shrunk back, perturb'd 
With shame or dread, from mine ! 

Elm. Thy glance doth search 
A wounded heart too deeply. 

Gon. Hast thou there 
Aught to conceal] 

Elm. Who hath not] 

Gon. Till this hour 
Thou never hadst ! Yet hear me ! — by the free 
And unattainted fame which wraps the dust 
Of thine heroic fathers 

Elm. This to me ! 
— Bring your inspiring war-notes, and your sounds 
Of festal music round a dying man ! 
Will his heart echo them] But if thy words 
Were spells, to call up, with each lofty tone, 
The grave's most awful spirits, they would stand 
Powerless, before my anguish ! 

Gon. Then, by her, 
Who there looks on thee in the purity 
Of her devoted youth, and o'er whose name 
No blight must fall, and whose pale cheek must ne'er 
Burn with that deeper tinge, caught painfully 
From the quick feeling of dishonour — Speak ! 
Unfold this mystery ! By thy sons 

Elm. My sons ! 
And canst thou name them ] 

Gon. Proudly ! Better far 
They died with all the promise of their youth, 
And the fair honour of their house upon them, 
Than that, with manhood's high and passionate 

soul 
To fearful strength unfolded, they should live, 
Barr'd from the lists of crested chivalry, 
And pining, in the silence of a woe, 
Which from the heart shuts daylight — o'er the 
shame [ne'er 

Of those who gavet hem birth ! But thou couldst 
Forget their lofty claims ! 

Elm. (wildly.) 'Twas but for them ! 
'Twas for them only ! Who shall dare arraign 
Madness of crime ] And He who made us, knows 



280 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



There are dark moments of all hearts and lives, 
Which bear down reason ! 

Gon. Thou, whom I have loved 
With such high trust as o'er our nature threw 
A glory scarce allow'd — what hast thou done ? 
— Ximena, go thou hence ! 

Elm. No, no ! my child ! 
There's pity in thy look ! All other eyes 
Are full of wrath and scorn ! Oh, leave me not ! 

Gon. That I should live to see thee thus abased ! 
— Yet speak ! What hast thou done ? 

Elm. Look to the gate ! 
Thou'rt worn with toil — but take no rest to-night ! 
The western gate ! Its watchers have been won — 
The Christian city hath been bought and sold ! — 
They will admit the Moor ! 

Gon. They have been won ! [this ? 

Brave men and tried so long ! Whose work was 

Elm. Think'st thou all hearts like thine ? Can 
mothers stand 
To see their children perish ? 

Gon. Then the guilt 
Was thine ? 

Elm. Shall mortal dare to call it guilt ? 
I tell thee, heaven, which made all holy things, 
Made naught more holy than the boundless love 
Which fills a mother's heart ! I say, 'tis woe 
Enough, with such an aching tenderness, 
To love aught earthly ! and in vain ! in vain ! 
— We are press'd down too sorely ! 

Gon. (in a low desponding voice.) Now my life 
Is struck to worthless ashes ! — In my soul 
Suspicion hath ta'en root. The nobleness 
Henceforth is blotted from all human brows ; 
And fearful power, a dark and troublous gift, 
Almost like prophecy, is pour'd upon me, 
To read the guilty secrets in each eye 
That once look'd bright with truth ! 

Why, then, I have gain'd 
What men call wisdom ! — A new sense, to which 
All tales that speak of high fidelity, 
And holy courage, and proud honour, tried, 
Search'd, and found steadfast, even to martyrdom, 
Are food for mockery ! Why should I not cast 
From my thinn'd locks the wearing helm at once, 
And in the heavy sickness of my soul 
Throw the sword down for ever 1 Is there aught 
In all this world of gilded hollowness, 
Now the bright hues drop off its loveliest things, 
Worth striving for again ? 

Xim. Father ! look up ! 
Turn unto me, thy child ! 

Gon. Thy face is fair ; 
And hath been unto me, in other days, 



As morning to the journeyer of the deep? 
But now — 'tis too like hers ! 

Elm. (falling at Ms feet.) Woe, shame and woe, 
Are on me in their might ! Forgive ! forgive ! 

Gon. (starting up.) Doth the Moor deem that / 
have part or share 
Or counsel in his vileness ? Stay me not ! 
Let go thy hold — 'tis powerless on me now : 
I linger here, while treason is at work ! 

[Exit Gonzalez. 

Elm. Ximena, dost thou scorn me ? 

Xim. I have found 
In mine own heart too much of feebleness, 
Hid, beneath many foldings, from all eyes 
But His whom naught can blind, to dare do aught 
But pity thee, dear mother ! 

Elm. Blessings light 
On thy fair head, my gentle child, for this ! 
Thou kind and merciful ! My soul is faint — 
Worn with long strife ! Is there aught else to do, 
Or suffer, ere we die ? — Oh God ! my sons ! 
— I have betray'd them ! All their innocent blood 
Is on my soul ! 

Xim. How shall I comfort thee ? [wind, 

— Oh ! hark ! what sounds come deepening on the 
So full of solemn hope ! 

A procession of Nuns passes across the Scene, 
bearing relics, and chanting. 

CHANT. 

A sword is on the land ! 
He that bears down young tree and glorious flower, 
Death is gone forth, he walks the wind in power ! 

Where is the warrior's hand? 
Our steps are in the shadows of the grave : 
Hear us, we perish ! — Father, hear and save ! 

If, in the days of song, 
The days of gladness, we have call'd on thee. 
When mirthful voices rang from sea to sea, 

And joyous hearts were strong; 
Now that alike the feeble and the brave 
Must cry, " We perish ! " — Father, hear and save ! 

The days of song are fled ! 
The winds come loaded, wafting dirge-notes by; 
But they that linger soon unmourn'd must die — 

The dead weep not the dead ! 
Wilt thou forsake us midst the stormy wave? 
We sink, we perish ! — Father, hear and save ! 

Helmet and lance are dust ! 
Is not the strong man wither'd from our eye? 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



281 



The arm struck down that held our banners high 1 — 

Thine is our spirits' trust ! 
Look through the gathering shadows of the grave ! 
Do we not perish ] — Father, hear and save ! 

Hernandez enters. 

Elm. Why com'st thou, man of vengeance 1 — 
What have I 
To do with thee 1 Am I not bow'd enough ] 
Thou art no mourner's comforter ! 

Her. Thy lord 
Hath sent me unto thee. Till this day's task 
Be closed, thou daughter of the feeble heart ! 
He bids thee seek him not, but lay thy ways 
Before heaven's altar, and in penitence 
Make thy soul's peace with God. 

Elm. Till this day's task [eyes — 
Be closed ! — There is strange triumph in thine 
Is it that I have fall'n from that high place 
Whereon I stood in fame "? But I can feel 
A wild and bitter pride in thus being past 
The power of thy dark glance ! My spirit now 
Is wound about by one sole mighty grief; 
Thy scorn hath lost its sting. Thou may'st re- 
proach [doth work 

Her. I come not to reproach thee. Heaven 
By many agencies ; and in its hour 
There is no insect which the summer breeze 
From the green leaf shakes trembling, but may 

serve 
Its deep unsearchable purposes, as well 
As the great ocean, or th' eternal fires 
Pent in earth's caves. Thou hast but speeded that, 
Which, in th' infatuate blindness of thy heart, 
Thou wouldst have trampled o'er all holy ties 
But to avert one day ! 

Elm. My senses fail. 
Thou said'st — speak yet again — I could not catch 
The meaning of thy words. 

Her. E'en now thy lord 
Hath sent our foes defiance. On the walls 
He stands in conference with the boastful Moor, 
And awful strength is with him. Through the 

blood 
Which this day must be pour'd in sacrifice 
Shall Spain be free. On all her olive-hills 
Shall men set up the battle-sign of fire, 
And round its blaze, at midnight, keep the sense 
Of vengeance wakeful in each other's hearts 
E'en with thy children's tale ! 

Xim. Peace, father ! peace ! 
Behold she sinks ! — the storm hath done its work 
Upon the broken reed. Oh ! lend thine aid 
To bear her hence. {They lead her away. 



Scene VI. — A Street in Valencia. Several Groups 
of Citizens and Soldiers, many of them lying on 
the steps of a church. Arms scattered on the 
ground around them. 

An Old Cit. The air is sultry, as with thunder- 
clouds. 
I left my desolate home, that I might breathe 
More freely in heaven's face, but my heart feels 
With this hot gloom o'erburden'd. I have now 
No sons to tend me. Which of you, kind friends, 
Will bring the old man water from the fount, 
To moisten his parch'd lip 1 [A citizen goes out. 

2d Cit. This wasting siege, 
Good Father Lopez, hath gone hard with you ! 
'Tis sad to hear no voices through the house, 
Once peopled with fair sons ! 

dd Cit. Why, better thus, 
Than to be haunted with their famish'd cries, 
E'en in your very dreams ! 

Old Cit. Heaven's will be done ! 
These are dark times ! I have not been alone 
In my affliction. [thought 

3d Cit. (with bitterness.) Why, we have but this 
Left for our gloomy comfort ! — And 'tis well ! 
Ay, let the balance be awhile struck even 
Between the noble's palace and the hut, 
Where the worn peasant sickens ! They that bear 
The humble dead unhonour'd to their homes, 
Pass now i' th' streets no lordly bridal train 
With its exulting music ; and the wretch 
Who on the marble steps of some proud hall 
Flings himself down to die, in his last need 
And agony of famine, doth behold 
No scornful guests, with their long purple robes, 
To the banquet sweeping by. Why, this is just ! 
These are the days when pomp is made to feel 
Its human mould ! 

4th Cit. Heard you last night the sound 
Of Saint Iago's bell ] — How sullenly 
From the great tower it peal'd ! 

5th Cit. Ay, and 'tis said 
No mortal hand was near when so it seem'd 
To shake the midnight streets. 

Old Cit. Too well I know 
The sound of coming fate ! — 'Tis ever thus 
When Death is on his way to make it night 
In the Cid's ancient house. 1 Oh ! there are things 
In this strange world of which we've all to learn 
When its dark bounds are pass'd. Yon bell, un- 
touched, 

1 It was a Spanish tradition that the great bell of the 
cathedral of Saragossa always tolled spontaneously before a 
king of Spain died. 



282 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



(Save by the hands we see not,) still doth speak — 
When of that line some stately head is mark'd — 
With a wild hollow peak at dead of night, 
Booking Valencia's towers. I've heard it oft, 
Nor know its warning false. 

4th Cit. And will our chief 
Buy with the price of his fair children's blood 
A few more days of pining wretchedness 
For this forsaken city ? 

Old Cit. Doubt it not ! 
— But with that ransom he may purchase still 
Deliverance for the land ! And yet 'tis sad 
To think that such a race, with all its fame, 
Should pass away ! For she, his daughter too, 
Moves upon earth as some bright thing whose time 
To sojourn there is short. 

5th Cit. Then woe for us 
When she is gone ! Her voice, the very sound 
Of her soft step, was comfort, as she moved [her 
Through the still house of mourning ! Who like 
Shall give us hope again ? 

Old Cit. Be still ! — she comes, 
And with a mien how changed ! A hurrying step, 
And a flush'd cheek ! What may this bode 1 ? — 
Be still ! 

Ximena enters, with Attendants carrying a Banner. 

Xim. Men of Valencia ! in an hour like this, 
What do ye here 1 

A Cit. We die ! 

Xim. Brave men die noio 
Girt for the toil, as travellers suddenly 
By the dark night o'ertaken on their way ! 
These days require such death ! It is too much 
Of luxury for our wild and angry times, 
To fold the mantle round us, and to sink 
From life, as flowers that shut up silently, [not] 
When the sun's heat doth scorch them ! Hear ye 

A Cit. Lady ! what wouldst thou with us ? 

Xim. Rise and arm ! 
E'en now the children of your chief are led 
Forth by the Moor to perish ! Shall this be — 
Shall the high sound of such a name be hush'd, 
I' th' land to which for ages it hath been 
A battle-word, as 'twere some passing note 
Of shepherd-music ? Must this work be done, 
And ye lie pining here, as men in whom 
The pulse which God hath made for noble thought 
Can so be thrill'd no longer 1 

A Cit. 'Tis e'en so ! 
Sickness, and toil, and grief, have breathed upon us, 
Our hearts beat faint and low. 

Xim. Are ye so poor 
Of soul, my countrymen ! that ye can draw 



Strength from no deeper source than that which 

sends 
The red blood mantling through the joyous veins, 
And gives the fleet step wings? Why, how have age 
And sensitive womanhood ere now endured, 
Through pangs of searching fire, in some proud 

cause, 
Blessing that agony 1 Think ye the Power 
Which bore them nobly up, as if to teach 
The torturer where eternal heaven had set 
Bounds to his sway, was earthy, of this earth — 
This dull mortality 1 Nay, then look on me ! 
Death's touch hath mark'd me, and I stand 

amongst you, 
As one whose place, i' th' sunshine of your world, 
Shall soon be left to fill ! — I say, the breath 
Of th' incense, floating through yon fane, shall scarce 
Pass from your path before me ! But even now 
I've that within me, kindling through the dust, 
Which from all time hath made high deeds its voice 
And token to the nations. Look on me ! 
Why hath heaven pour'd forth courage, as a flame 
Wasting the womanish heart, which must be still'd 
Yet sooner for its swift consuming brightness, 
If not to shame your doubt, and your despair, 
And your soul's torpor ? Yet, arise and arm ! 
It may not be too late. 

A Cit. Why, what are we, [few, 

To cope with hosts ? Thus faint, and worn, and 
O'ernumber'd and forsaken, is't for us 
To stand against the mighty % 

Xim. And for whom 
Hath He, who shakes the mighty with a breath 
From their high places, made the fearfulness, 
And ever-wakeful presence of his power 
To the pale startled earth most manifest, 
But for the weak ] Was't for the helm'd and crown'd 
That suns were stay'd at noonday 1 — stormy seas 
As a rill parted 1 — mail'd archangels sent 
To wither up the strength of kings with death 1 
— I tell you, if these marvels have been done, 
'Twas for the wearied and th' oppress'd of men. 
They needed such ! And generous faith hath power 
By her prevailing spirit, e'en yet to work 
Deliverances, whose tale shall live with those 
Of the great elder-time ! Be of good heart ! 
Who is forsaken 1 He that gives the thought 
A place within his breast ] 'Tis not for you. 
— Know ye this banner 1 spired 1 

Cits, (murmuring to each other.) Is she not in- 
Doth not heaven call us by her fervent voice 1 

Xim. Know ye this banner 1 

Cits. 'Tis the Cid's. 

Xim. The Cid's ! 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



283 



Who breathes that name but in th' exulting tone 
Which the heart rings to ? Why, the very wind, 
As it swells out the noble standard's fold, 
Hath a triumphant sound ! The Cid's ! it moved 
Even as a sign of victory through the land, 
From the free skies ne'er stooping to a foe ! 

Old Cit. Can ye still pause, my brethren ! Oh ! 
that youth 
Through this worn frame were kindling once again ! 

Xim. Ye linger still 1 Upon this very air, 
He that was born in happy hour for Spain x 
Pour'd forth his conquering spirit ! 'Twas the 
breeze [wave 

From your own mountains which came down to 
This banner of his battles, as it droop'd 
Above the champion's deathbed. Nor even then 
Its tale of glory closed. They made no moan 
O'er the dead hero, and no dirge was sung, 2 
But the deep tambour and shrill horn of war 
Told when the mighty pass'd ! They wrapt him not 
With the pale shroud, but braced the warrior's form 
In war-array, and on his barded 3 steed, 
As for a triumph, rear'd him ; marching forth 
In the hush'd midnight from Valencia's walls, 
Beleaguer d then, as now., All silently 
The stately funeral moved. But who was he 
That follow' d, charging on the tall white horse, 
And with the solemn standard, broad and pale, 
Waving in sheets of snowlight ? And the cross, 
The bloody cross, far-blazing from his shield, 
And the fierce meteor-sword 1 They fled, they fled ! 
The kings of Afric, with their countless hosts, 
Were dust in his red path. The scimitar 
Was shiver'd as a reed ; — for in that hour 
The warrior-saint that keeps the watch for Spain, 
Was arm'd betimes. And o'er that fiery field 
The Cid's high banner stream'd all joyously, 
For still its lord was there. 

Cits, (rising tumultuously) Even unto death 
Again it shall be follow'd ! 

Xim. Will he see 
The noble stem hewn down, the beacon-light 
Which from his house for ages o'er the land 
Hath shone through cloud and storm, thus 

quench'd at once 1 
Will he not aid his children in the hour 
Of this their utmost peril 1 Awful power 
Is with the holy dead, and there are times 
When the tomb hath no chain they cannot burst ! 
Is it a thing forgotten how he woke 
From its deep rest of old ; remembering Spain 

1 " El queen buen hora nasco ; " he that was born in 
happy hour. An appellation given to the Cid in the ancient 
chronicles. 



In her great danger ?• At the night's mid- watch 
How Leon started, when the sound was heard 
That shook her dark and hollow-echoing streets, 
As with the heavy tramp of steel-clad men, 
By thousands marching through. For he had risen ! 
The Campeador was on his march again, 
And in his arms, and follow'd by his hosts 
Of shadowy spearmen. He had left the world 
From which we are dimly parted, and gone forth, 
And call'd his buried warriors from their sleep, 
Gathering them round him to deliver Spain ; 
For Afric was upon her. Morning broke, 
Day rush'd through clouds of battle ; but at eve 
Our God had triumph'd, and the rescued land 
Sent up a shout of victory from the field, 
That rock'd her ancient mountains. 

Cits. Arm ! to arms ! 
On to our chief ! We have strength within us yet 
To die with our blood roused ! Now, be the word 
For the Cid's house ! [They begin to arm themselves. 

Xim. Ye know his battle-song 1 [forth 

The old rude strain wherewith his bands went 
To strike down Paynim swords ! [She sings. 

THE CID'S BATTLE-SONG. 

The Moor is on his way ! 
With the tambour-peal and the tecbir-shout, 
And the horn o'er the blue seas ringing out, 

He hath marshall'd his dark array ! 

Shout through the vine-clad land ! 
That her sons on all their hills may hear ; 
And sharpen the point of the red wolf-spear, 

And the sword for the brave man's hand ! 

[The Citizens join in the song, vMle 
they continue arming themselves. 

Banners are in the field ! 
The chief must rise from his joyous board, 
And turn from the feast ere the wine be pour'd, 

And take up his father's shield ! 

The Moor is on his way ! 
Let the peasant leave his olive-ground, [round : 
And the goats roam wild through the pine-woods 

There is nobler work to-day ! 

Send forth the trumpet's call ! 
Till the bridegroom cast the goblet down, 
And the marriage-robe, and the flowery crown ; 

And arm in the banquet hall ! 

2 For this, and the subsequent allusions to Spanish legends, 
see The Romances, and Chronicle of the Cid. 

3 Barded, caparisoned for battle. 



284 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



And stay the funeral-train : 
Bid the chanted mass be hush'd awhile, 
And the bier laid down in the holy aisle, 

And the mourners girt for Spain. 

[They take up the tanner and follow Ximena 
out, their voices are heard gradually dying 
away at a distance. 

Ere night must swords be red ! 
It is not an hour for knells and tears, 
But for helmets braced and serried spears ! 

To-morrow for the dead ! 

The Cid is in array ! 
His steed is barded, his plume waves high, 
His banner is up in the sunny sky — 

Now, joy for the Cross to-day ! 



Scene VII. — The walls of the city. The plains 
beneath, with the Moorish Camp and Army. 

Gonzalez, Garcias, Hernandez. 

(A wild sound of Moorish music heard from below) 

Her. What notes are these in their deep mourn- 
fulness 
So strangely wild ] 

Gar. 'Tis the shrill melody 
Of the Moor's ancient death-song. Well I know 
The rude barbaric sound ; but, till this hour, 
It seem'd not fearful. Now, a shuddering chill 
Comes o'er me with its tones. — Lo ! from yon 

tent 
They lead the noble boys ! 

Her. The young, and pure, 
And beautiful victims ! — 'Tis on things like these 
We cast our hearts in wild idolatry, 
Sowing the winds with hope ! Yet this is well : 
Thus brightly crown'd with life's most gorgeous 

flowers, 
And all unblemish'd, earth should offer up 
Her treasures unto heaven ! 

Gar. (to Gonzalez.) My chief, the Moor 
Hath led your children forth. 

Gon. (starting) Are my sons there 1 
I knew they could not perish ; for yon heaven 
Would ne'er behold it ! — Where is he that said 
I was no more a father ] They look changed — 
Pallid and worn, as from a prison-house ! 
Or is't mine eyes see dimly 1 ? But their steps 
Seem heavy, as with pain. I hear the clank — 
Oh God ! their limbs are fetter'd ! 



Abd. (coming forward beneath the walls.) 
Christian ! look 

Once more upon thy children. There is yet 
One moment for the trembling of the sword ; 
Their doom is still with thee. 

Gon. Why should this man 
So mock us with the semblance of our kind? 
— Moor ! Moor ! thou dost too daringly provoke, 
In thy bold cruelty, th' all-judging One, 
Who visits for such things ! Hast thou no sense 
Of thy frail nature 1 'Twill be taught thee yet ; 
And darkly shall the anguish of my soul, 
Darkly and heavily, pour itself on thine, 
When thou shalt cry for mercy from the dust, 
And be denied ! 

Abd. Nay, is it not thyself 
That hast no mercy and no love within thee 1 
These are thy sons, the nurslings of thy house ; 
Speak ! must they live or die 1 

Gon. (in violent emotion) Is it heaven's will 
To try the dust it kindles for a day, 
With infinite agony ! How have I drawn 
This chastening on my head ! They bloom'd 

around me, 
And my heart grew too fearless in its joy, 
Glorying in their bright promise ! — If we fall, 
Is there no pardon for our feebleness ] 

Hernandez, without speaking, holds up a cross 
before him. 

Abd. Speak ! 

Gon. (snatching the cross, and lifting it up) Let 
the earth be shaken through its depths, 
But this must triumph ! 

Abd. (coldly) Be it as thou wilt. 
— Unsheath the scimitar ! [To his guards. 

Gar. (to Gonzalez.) Away, my chief ! 
This is your place no longer. There are things 
No human heart, though battle-proof as yours, 
Unmadden'd may sustain. 

Gon. Be still ! I have now 
No place on earth but this ! 

Alph. (from beneath) Men ! give me way, 
That I may speak forth once before I die ! 

Gar. Theprincely boy ! — how gallantly his brow 
Wears its high nature in the face of death ! 

Alph. Father! 

Gon. My son ! my son ! — Mine eldest-born ! 

Alph. Stay but upon the ramparts! Fear thou not 
— There is good courage in me. my father ! 
I will not shame thee ! — only let me fall 
Knowing thine eye looks proudly on thy child, 
So shall my heart have strength. 

Gon. Would, would to God, 



J 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



285 



That I might die for thee, my noble boy ! 
Alphonso, my fair son ! 

Alph. Could I have lived, 
I might have been a warrior ! Now, farewell ! 
But look upon me still ! — I will not blench 
When the keen sabre flashes. Mark me well ! 
Mine eyelids shall not quiver as it falls, 
So thou wilt look upon me ! 

Gar. (to Gonzalez.) Nay, my lord ! 
We must be gone ! Thou canst not bear it ! 

Gon. Peace ! [bear 1 

Who hath told thee how much man's heart can 
— Lend me thine arm — my brain whirls fearfully — 
How thick the shades close round! My boy! my 

boy! 
Where art thou in this gloom 1 ? 

Gar. Let us go hence ! 
This is a dreadful moment ! 

Gon. Hush! — what saidst thou? 
Now let me look on him ! — Dost thou see aught 
Through the dull mist which wraps us 1 

Gar. I behold — 
Oh, for a thousand Spaniards ! to rush down 

Gon. Thou seest — My heart stands still to hear 
thee speak ! 
— There seems a fearful hush upon the air, 
As 'twere the dead of night ! 

Gar. The hosts have closed 
Around the spot in stillness. Through the spears, 
Ranged thick and motionless, I see him not ! 
— But now 

Gon. He bade me keep mine eye upon him, 
And all is darkness round me ! — Now 1 ? 

Gar. A sword, 
A sword, springs upward, like a lightning burst, 
Through the dark serried mass ! Its cold blue glare 
Is wavering to and fro — 'tis vanish'd — hark ! 

Gon. I heard it, yes ! — I heard the dull dead 
sound 
That heavily broke the silence ! Didst thou speak ? 
— I lost thy words — come nearer ! 

Gar. 'Twas — 'tis past ! — 
The sword fell then! [blood ! 

Her. (with exultation) Flow forth thou noble 
Fount of Spain's ransom and deliverance, flow 
Uncheck'dandbrightly forth ! Thoukingly stream ! 
Blood of our heroes ! blood of martyrdom ! 
Which through so many warrior-hearts hastpour'd 
Thy fiery currents, and hast made our hills 
Free, by thine own free offering ! Bathe the land, — 
But there thou shalt not sink ! Our very air 
Shall take thy colouring, and our loaded skies 
O'er th' infidel hang dark and ominous, 
With battle-hues of thee ! And thy deep voice, 



Rising above them to the judgment-seat, 
Shall call a burst of gather'd vengeance down, 
To sweep th' oppressor from us ! For thy wave 
Hath made his guilt run o'er ! [dream ! 

Gon. (endeavouring to rouse himself.) 'Tis all a 
There is not one — no hand on earth could harm 
That fair boy's graceful head ! Why look you thus ? 

Abd. (pointing to Carlos.) Christian ! e'en yet 
thou hast a son ! 

Gon. E'en yet ! 

Car. My father! take me from these fearful men! 
Wilt thou not save me, father 1 [strength 

Gon. (attempting to unsheath his sword.) Is the 
From mine arm shiver'd? Garcias, follow me ! 

Gar. Whither, my chief 1 

Gon. Why, we can die as well 
On yonder plain — ay, a spear's thrust will do 
The little that our misery doth require, 
Sooner than e'en this anguish ! Life is best 
Thrown from us in such moments. 

[ Voices heard at a distance. 

Her. Hush ! what strain 
Floats on the wind? 

Gar. 'Tis the Cid's battle-song ! 
What marvel hath been wrought 1 

Voices approaching heard in chorus. 
The Moor is on his way ! 
With the tambour-peal and the tecbir-shout, 
And the horn o'er the blue seas ringing out, 
He hath marshall'd his dark array ! 

Ximena enters, followed by the Citizens, 
with the Banner. 

Xim. Is it too late? — My father, these are men 
Through life and death prepared to follow thee 
Beneath this banner ! Is their zeal too late 1 ? 
— Oh ! there's a fearful history on thy brow ! 
What hast thou seen 1 ? 

Gar. It is not all too late. 

Xim. My brothers ! 

Her. All is well. 

(To Garcias.) Hush ! wouldst thou chill 
That which hath sprung within them, as a flame 
From th' altar-embers mounts in sudden brightness ? 
I say, 'tis not too late, ye men of Spain ! 
On to the rescue ! 

Xim. Bless me, my father ! 
And I will hence, to aid thee with my prayers, 
Sending my spirit with thee through the storm 
Lit up by flashing swords ! [spared? 

Gon. (falling upon her neck.) Hath aught been 
Am I not all bereft? Thou'rt left me still ! 
Mine own, my loveliest one, thou'rt left me still! 
Farewell ! — thy father's blessing, and thy God's, 



286 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Be with thee, my Ximena ! 

Xim. Fare thee well ! 
If, ere thy steps turn homeward from the field, 
The voice is hush'd that still hath welcomed thee, 
Think of me in thy victory ! 

Her. Peace ! no more ! 
This is no time to melt our nature down 
To a soft stream of tears ! Be of strong heart ! 
Give me the banner ! Swell the song again ! 
Cits. Ere night must swords be red ! 
It is not an hour for knells and tears, 
But for helmets braced and serried spears ! 
To-morrow for the dead ! 



Scene VIII. — Before the Altar of a Church. 
Elmina rises from the steps of the Altar. 

Elm. The clouds are fearful that o'erhang thy 

ways, 
thou mysterious heaven ! It cannot be 
That I have drawn the vials of thy wrath 
To burst upon me, through the lifting up 
Of a proud heart elate in happiness ! 
No ! in my day's full noon, for me life's flowers 
But wreath'd a cup of trembling; and the love, 
The boundless love, my spirit was form'd to bear, 
Hath ever, in its place of silence, been 
A trouble and a shadow, tinging thought 
With hues too deep for joy ! I never look'd 
On my fair children, in their buoyant mirth 
Or sunny sleep, when all the gentle air 
Seem'd glowing with their quiet blessedness, 
But o'er my soul there came a shuddering sense 
Of earth, and its pale changes; e'en like that 
Which vaguely mingles with our glorious dreams — 
A restless and disturbing consciousness [shrunk 
That the bright things must fade ! How have I 
From the dull murmur of th' unquiet voice, 
With its low tokens of mortality, 
Till my heart fainted midst their smiles ! — their 

smiles ! [go down 

Where are those glad looks now %— Could they 
With all their joyous light, that seem'd not earth's, 
To the cold grave 1 My children ! — righteous 

heaven ! 
There floats a dark remembrance o'er my brain 
Of one who told me, with relentless eye, 
That this should be the hour ! 

Ximena enters. 

Xim. They are gone forth 
Unto the rescue ! — strong in heart and hope, 



Faithful, though few ! — My mother, let thy prayers 
Call on the land's good saints to lift once more 
The sword and cross that sweep the field for Spain, 
As in old battle ; so thine arms e'en yet 
May clasp thy sons ! For me, my part is done ! 
The flame which dimly might have linger'd yet 
A little while, hath gather'd all its rays 
Brightly to sink at once. And it is well ! 
The shadows are around me : to thy heart 
Fold me, that I may die. 

Mm. My child ! what dream 
Is on thy soul 1 Even now thine aspect wears 
Life's brightest inspiration ! 

Xim. Death's ! 

Mm. Away ! 
Thine eye hath starry clearness ; and thy cheek 
Doth glow beneath it with a richer hue, 
Than tinged its earliest flower ! 

Xim. It well may be ! 
There are far deeper and far warmer hues 
Than those which draw their colouring from the 

founts 
Of youth, or health, or hope. 

Mm. Nay, speak not thus ! 
There's that about thee shining which would send 
E'en through my heart a sunny glow of joy, 
Were 't not for these sad words. The dim cold air 
And solemn light, which wrap these tombs and 

shrines 
As a pale gleaming shroud, seem kindled up 
With a young spirit of ethereal hope 
Caught from thy mien ! — Oh no ! this is not death ! 

Xim. Why should not He, whose touch dis- 
solves our chain, 
Put on his robes of beauty when he comes 
As a deliverer 1 He hath many forms — 
They should not all be fearful ! If his call 
Be but our gathering to that distant land, 
For whose sweet waters we have pined with thirst, 
Why should not its prophetic sense be borne 
Into the heart's deep stillness, with a breath 
Of summer-winds, a voice of melody, 
Solemn, yet lovely ! Mother, I depart ! — 
Be it thy comfort, in the after-days, 
That thou hast seen me thus ! 

Mm. Distract me not 
With such wild fears ! Can I bear on with life 
When thou art gone % — thy voice, thy step, thy 

smile, 
Pass'd from my path ! Alas ! even now thine eye 
Is changed — thy cheek is fading ! 

Xim. Ay, the clouds 
Of the dim hour are gathering o'er my sight ; 
And yet I fear not, for the God of Help 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



23^ 



Comes in that quiet darkness ! It may soothe 
Thy woes, my mother ! if I tell thee now 
With what glad calmness I behold the veil 
Falling between me and the world, wherein 
My heart so ill hath rested. 

Elm. Thine ! 

Xim. Eejoice 
For her that, when the garland of her life 
Was blighted, and the springs of hope were dried, 
Received her summons hence ; and had no time, 
Bearing the canker at th' impatient heart, 
To wither ; sorrowing for that gift of heaven, 
Which lent one moment of existence light 
That dimm'd the rest for ever ! 

Elm. How is this ? 
My child, what mean'st thou ? 

Xim. Mother ! I have loved, 
And been beloved ! The sunbeam of an hour, 
Which gave life's hidden treasures to mine eye, 
As they lay shining in their secret founts, 
Went out and left them colourless. 'Tis past — 
And what remains on earth 1 The rainbow mist 
Through which I gazed, hath melted, and my sight 
Is clear'd to look on all things as they are ! — 
But this is far too mournful ! Life's dark gift 
Hath fall'n too early and too cold upon me ! — 
Therefore I would go hence ! 

Elm. And thou hast loved 
Unknown 

Xim. Oh ! pardon, pardon that I veil'd 
My thoughts from thee ! But thou hadst woes 

enough, 
And mine came o'er me when thy soul had need 
Of more than mortal strength ! For I had scarce 
Given the deep consciousness that I was loved 
A treasure's place within my secret heart, 
When earth's brief joy went from me ! 

'Twas at morn 
I saw the warriors to their field go forth, 
And he — my chosen — was there amongst the rest, 
With his young, glorious brow ! I look'd again : 
The strife grew dark beneath me — but his plume 
Waved free above the lances. Yet again — 
It had gone down ! and steeds were trampling o'er 
The spot to which mine eyes were riveted, 
Till blinded by th' intenseness of their gaze ! — 
And then — at last — I hurried to the gate, 
And met him there ! — I met him ! — on his shield, 
And with his cloven helm, and shiver'd sword, 
And dark hair steep'd in blood ! They bore him 

past : 
Mother ! — I saw his face ! Oh ! such a death 
Works fearful changes on the fair of earth, 
The pride of woman's eye ! 



Elm. Sweet daughter, peace ! 
Wake not the dark remembrance ; for thy frame — 

Xim. There will be peace ere long. I shut my 
heart, 
Even as a tomb, o'er that lone silent grief, 
That I might spare it thee ! — But now the hour 
Is come, when that, which would have pierced thy 

soul, 
Shall be its healing balm. Oh ! weep thou not, 
Save with a gentle sorrow ! 

Elm. Must it be 1 
Art thou indeed to leave me 1 

Xim. (exultingly.) Be thou glad ! 
I say, rejoice above thy favour'd child ! 
Joy, for the soldier when his field is fought, 
Joy, for the peasant when his vintage-task 
Is closed at eve ! — But most of all for her, 
Who, when her life had changed its glittering robes 
For the dull garb of sorrow, which doth cling 
So heavily around the journeyers on, 
Cast down its weight — and slept ! 

Elm. Alas ! thine eye 
Is wandering — yet how brightly ! Is this death ! 
Or some high wondrous vision 1 Speak, my child ! 
How is it with thee now ? 

Xim. (wildly.) I see it still ! 
'Tis floating, like a glorious cloud on high, 
My father's banner ! Hear'st thou not a sound 1 
The trumpet of Castile ! Praise, praise to heaven ! 
— Now may the weary rest ! — Be still ! — Who calls 
The night so fearful 1 [She dies. 

Elm. No ! she is not dead ! 
Ximena ! — speak to me ! Oh yet a tone 
From that sweet voice, that I may gather in 
One more remembrance of its lovely sound, 
Ere the deep silence fall ! What, is all hush'd ? — 
No, no ! — it cannot be ! How should we bear 
The dark misgivings of our souls, if heaven 
Left not such beings with us 1 But is this 
Her wonted look 1 — too sad a quiet lies 
On its dim fearful beauty ! Speak, Ximena ! 
Speak ! My heart dies within me ! She is gone, 
With all her blessed smiles ! My child ! my child ! 
Where art thou ? — Where is that which answer'd 
me, [move ] 

From thy soft-shining eyes? — Hush ! doth she 
One light lock seem'd to tremble on her brow, 
As a pulse throbb'd beneath ; — 'twas but the voice 
Of my despair that stirr'd it ! She is gone ! 

[She throws herself on the body. 

Gonzalez enters wounded. 
Elm. (rising as he approaches.) I must not now 
be scorn' d ! — No, not a look, 



288 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



A whisper of reproach ! Behold my woe ! — 
Thou canst not scorn me now ! 

Gon. Hast thou heard all ? 

Elm. Thy daughter on my bosom laid her head, 
And pass'd away to rest ! Behold her there, 
Even such as death hath made her ! x 

Gon. (bending over XiMENA'sbody.) Thou art gone 
A little while before me, my child ! 
Why should the traveller weep to part with those, 
That scarce an hour will reach their promised land, 
Ere he too cast his pilgrim staff away, 
And spread his couch beside them 1 

Elm. Must it be 
Henceforth enough that once a thing so fair 
Had its bright place amongst us ! Is this all 
Left for the years to come 1 We will not stay ! 
Earth's chain each hour grows weaker. 

Gon. (still gazinguponXmENA.) And thou'rt laid 
To slumber in the shadow, blessed child ! 
Of a yet stainless altar, and beside 
A sainted warrior's tomb ! Oh, fitting place 
For thee to yield thy pure heroic soul 
Back unto him that gave it ! And thy cheek 
Yet smiles in its bright paleness ! 

Elm. Hadst thou seen 
The look with which she pass'd ! 

Gon. (still bending over her.) Why, 'tis almost 
Like joy to view thy beautiful repose ! 
The faded image of that perfect calm 
Floats, e'en as long-forgotten music, back 
Into my weary heart ! No dark wild spot 
On thy clear brow doth tell of bloody hands [seen 
That quench'd young life by violence ! We 've 
Too much of horror, in one crowded hour, 
To weep for aught so gently gather'd hence ! 
— Oh ! man leaves other traces ! 

Elm. (suddenly starting) It returns 
On my bewilder'd soul 1 Went ye not forth 
Unto the rescue 1 And thou'rt here alone ! 
— Where are my sons ? 

Gon. (solemnly.) We were too late ! 

Elm. Too late ! 
Hast thou naught else to tell me 1 

Gon. I brought back 
From that last field the banner of my sires, 
And my own death-wound. 

Elm. Thine! 

Gon. Another hour 
Shall hush its throbs for ever. I go hence, 
And with me 

Elm. No ! Man could not lift his hands — 



1 " La voila, telle que la mort nous l'a faite !" — Bossuet, 
Oraisons Funebres. 



Where hast thou left thy sons ? 

Gon. I have no sons. 

Elm. What hast thou said 1 

Gon. That now there lives not one 
To wear the glory of mine ancient house, 
When I am gone to rest. 

Elm. (throwing herself on the ground, and speak- 
ing in a low hurried voice.) 
In one brief hour, all gone ! — and such a death ! 
I see their blood gush forth ! — their graceful heads ! 
— Take the dark vision from me, my God ! 
And such a death for them ! I was not there ! 
They were but mine in beauty and in joy, 
Not in that mortal anguish ! All, all gone ! — 
Why should I struggle more? — What is this 

Power, 
Against whose might, on all sides pressing us, 
We strive with fierce impatience, which but lays 
Our own frail spirits prostrate 1 

(After a long pause.) Now I know 
Thy hand, my God ! — and they are soonest crush'd 
That most withstand it ! I resist no more. 

[She rises. 
A light, a light springs up from grief and death, 
Which with its solemn radiance doth reveal 
Why we have thus been tried ! 

Gon. Then I may still 
Fix my last look on thee, in holy love, 
Parting, but yet with hope ! 

Elm. (falling at his feet.) Canst thou forgive ? 
Oh, I have driven the arrow to thy heart, 
That should have buried it within mine own, 
And borne the pang in silence ! I have cast 
Thy life's fair honour, in my wild despair, 
As an unvalued gem upon the waves, [earth, 

Whence thou hast snatch'd it back, to bear from 
All stainless, on thy breast. Well hast thou done — 
But I — canst thou forgive 1 

Gon. Within this hour 
I've stood upon that verge whence mortals fall, 
And learn'dhow 'tis with one whose sight grows dim, 
And whose foot trembles on the gulf's dark side. 
Death purifies all feeling : we will part 
In pity and in love. 

Elm. Death ! And thou too 
Art on thy way ! Oh, joy for thee, high heart ! 
Glory and joy for thee ! The day is closed, 
And well and nobly hast thou borne thyself 
Through its long battle-toils, though many swords 
Have enter'd thine own soul ! But on my head 
Becoil the fierce invokings of despair, 
And I am left far distanced in the race, 
The lonely one of earth ! Ay, this is just. 
I am not worthy that upon my breast 






THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



289 



In this, thine hour of victory, thou shouldst yield 
Thy spirit unto God ! 

Gon. Thou art ! thou art ! 
Oh ! a life's love, a heart's long faithfulness, 
Even in the presence of eternal things, 
Wearing their chasten'd beauty all undimm'd, 
Assert their lofty claims ; and these are not 
For one dark hour to cancel ! We are here, 
Before that altar which received the vows 
Of our unbroken youth ; and meet it is 
For such a witness, in the sight of heaven, 
And in the face of death, whose shadowy arm 
Comes dim between us, to record th' exchange 
Of our tried hearts' forgiveness. Who are they, 
That in one path have journey' d, needing not 
Forgiveness at its close 1 

A Citizen enters hastily. 

Cit. The Moors ! the Moors ! 

Gon. How ! is the city storm'd ? 
righteous heaven ! for this I look'd not yet ! 
Hath all been done in vain 1 ? Why, then, 'tis time 
For prayer, and then to rest ! 

Cit. The sun shall set, 
And not a Christian voice be left for prayer, 
To-night, within Valencia. Round our walls 
The Paynim host is gathering for th' assault, 
And we have none to guard them. 

Gon. Then my place 
Is here no longer. I had hoped to die 
E'en by the altar and the sepulchre 
Of my brave sires ; but this was not to be ! 
Give me my sword again, and lead me hence 
Back to the ramparts. I have yet an hour, 
And it hath still high duties. "Now, my wife ! 
Thou mother of my children — of the dead — 
Whom I name unto thee in steadfast hope — 
Farewell ! 

Elm. No, not farewell ! My soul hath risen 
To mate itself with thine ; and by thy side, 
Amidst the hurling lances, I will stand, 
As one on whom a brave man's love hath been 
Wasted not utterly. 

Gon. I thank thee, heaven ! 
That I have tasted of the awful joy 
Which thou hast given, to temper hours like this 
With a deep sense of thee, and of thine ends 
In these dread visitings ! 

(To Elmina.) We will not part, 
But with the spirit's parting. 

Elm. One farewell 
To her, that, mantled with sad loveliness, 
Doth slumber at our feet ! My blessed child ! 
Oh ! in thy heart's affliction thou wert strong, 



And holy courage did pervade thy woe, 
As light the troubled waters ! Be at peace ! 
Thou whose bright spirit made itself the soul 
Of all that were around thee ! And thy life 
E'en then was struck and withering at the core ! 
Farewell ! thy parting look hath on me fallen, 
E'en as a gleam of heaven, and I am now 
More like what thou hast been. My soul is hush'd; 
For a still sense of purer worlds hath sunk 
And settled on its depths with that last smile 
Which from thine eye shone forth. Thou hast 

not lived 
In vain ! My child, farewell ! 

Gon. Surely for thee 
Death had no sting, Ximena ! We are blest 
To learn one secret of the shadowy pass, 
From such an aspect's calmness. Yet once more 
I kiss thy pale young cheek, my broken flower ! 
In token of th' undying love and hope 
Whose land is far away. [Exeunt. 



Scene IX. — The walls of the city. 
Hernandez — A few citizens gathered round him. 

Her. Why, men have cast the treasures, which 

their lives 
Had been worn down in gathering, on the pyre ; 
Ay, at their household hearths have lit the brand, 
Even from that shrine of quiet love to bear 
The flame which gave their temples and their 

homes 
In ashes to the winds ! They have done this, 
Making a blasted void where once the sim 
Look'd upon lovely dwellings ; and from earth 
Razing all record that on such a spot 
Childhood hath sprung, age faded, misery wept, 
And frail humanity knelt before her God : 
They have done this, in their free nobleness, 
Rather than see the spoiler's tread pollute 
Their holy places. Praise, high praise be theirs, 
Who have left man such lessons ! And these things, 
Made your own hills their witnesses ! The sky, 
Whose arch bends o'er you, and the seas, wherein 
Your rivers pour their gold, rejoicing saw 
The altar, and the birthplace, and the tomb, 
And all memorials of man's heart and faith, 
Thus proudly honour'd ! Be ye not outdone 
By the departed ! Though the godless foe 
Be close upon us, we have power to snatch 
The spoils of victory from him. Be but strong ! 
A few bright torches and brief moments yet 
Shall baffle his flush'd hope ; and we may die, 
Laughing him unto scorn. Rise, follow me ! 



290 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



And thou, Valencia ! triumph in thy fate — 
The ruin, not the yoke ; and make thy towers 
A beacon unto Spain ! 

Cits. We'll follow thee ! 
Alas ! for our fair city, and the homes 
Wherein we rear'd our children ! But away ! 
The Moor shall plant no Crescent o'er our fanes ! 

Voice, (from a tower on the walls) Succours ! — 
Castile ! Castile ! 

Cits, (rushing to the spot.) It is even so ! 
Now blessing be to heaven, for we are saved ! 
Castile ! Castile ! 

Voice, (from the tower.) Line after line of spears, 
Lance after lance, upon th' horizon's verge, 
Like festal lights from cities bursting up, 
Doth skirt the plain. In faith, a noble host ! 

Another voice. The Moor hath turn'd him from 
our walls, to front 
Th' advancing might of Spain ! 

Cits, (shouting.) Castile ! Castile ! 

Gonzalez enters, supported by Elmina and 
a citizen. 

Gon. What shouts of joy are these 1 

Her. Hail ! chieftain, hail ! 
Thus, even in death, 'tis given thee to receive 
The conqueror's crown ! Behold our God hath 
heard, [come ! 

And arm'd himself with vengeance ! Lo ! they 
The lances of Castile ! 

Gon. I knew, I knew, 
Thou wouldst not utterly, my God ! forsake 
Thy servant in his need ! My blood and tears 
Have not sunk vainly to th' attesting earth. 
Praise to Thee, thanks and praise, that I have lived 
To see this hour ! 

Mm. And I, too, bless thy name, 
Though thou hast proved me unto agony ! 

God ! — thou God of chastening ! 
Voice, (from the tower.) They move on ! 

1 see the royal banner in the air, 
With its emblazon'd towers ! 

Gon. Go, bring ye forth 
The banner of the Cid, and plant it here, 
To stream above me, for an answering sign 
That the good Cross doth hold its lofty place 
Within Valencia still ! What see you now 1 

Her. I see a kingdom's might upon its path, 
Moving, in terrible magnificence, 
Unto revenge and victory ! With the flash 
Of knightly swords, up-springing from the ranks, 
As meteors from a still and gloomy deep, 
And with the waving of ten thousand plumes, 
Like a land's harvest in the autumn wind, 



And with fierce light, which is not of the sun, 
But flung from sheets of steel — it comes, it comes, 
The vengeance of our God ! 

Gon. I hear it now, 
The heavy tread of mail-clad multitudes, 
Like thunder-showers upon the forest paths. 

Her. Ay, earth knows well the omen of that 
sound ; 
And she hath echoes, like a sepulchre's, 
Pent in her secret hollows, to respond 
Unto the step of death ! 

Gon. Hark ! how the wind 
Swells proudly with the battle-march of Spain ? 
Now the heart feels its power ! A little while 
Grant me to live, my God ! What pause is this 1 

Her. A deep and dreadful one ! The serried files 
Level their spears for combat ; now the hosts 
Look on each other in their brooding wrath, 
Silent, and face to face. 

Voices heard without, chanting. 

Calm on the bosom of thy God, 

Fair spirit ! rest thee now ! 
E'en while with ours thy footsteps trode 

His seal was on thy brow. 

Dust, to its narrow house beneath ! 

Soul, to its place on high ! 
They that have seen thy look in death 

No more may fear to die. 

Mm. (to Gonzalez.) It is the death-hymn o'er 
thy daughter's bier ! 
But I am calm ; and e'en like gentle winds, 
That music, through the stillness of my heart, 
Sends mournful peace. 

Gon. Oh ! well those solemn tones 
Accord with such an hour, for all her life 
Breathed of a hero's soul ! 

[.4 sound of trumpets and shouting from the plain.] 

Her. Now, now they close ! Hark ! what a 
dull dead sound 
Is in the Moorish war-shout ! I have known 
Such tones prophetic oft. The shock is given — 
Lo ! they have placed their shields before their 

hearts, 
And lower'd their lances with the streamers on, 
And on their steeds bent forward ! God for Spain ! 
The first bright sparks of battle have been struck 
From spear to spear, across the gleaming field ! — 
There is no sight on which the blue sky looks 
To match with this ! 'Tis not the gallant crests, 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



291 



Nor banners with their glorious blazonry ; 
The very nature and high soul of man 
Doth now reveal itself ! 

Gon. Oh, raise me up, 
That I may look upon the noble scene ! — 
It will not be ! — That this dull mist would pass 
A moment from my sight ! Whence rose that shout, 
As in fierce triumph 1 

Her. (clasping his hands) Must I look on this ? 
The banner sinks — 'tis taken ! 

Gon. Whose 1 ? 

Her. Castile's ! 

Gon. God of Battles ! 

Elm. Calm thy noble heart ; 
Thou wilt not pass away without thy meed. 
Nay, rest thee on my bosom. 

Her. Cheer thee yet ! 
Our knights have spurr'd to rescue. There is now 
A whirl, a mingling of all terrible things, 
Yet more appalling than the fierce distinctness 
Wherewith they moved before ! I see tall plumes 
All wildly tossing o'er the battle's tide, 
Sway'd by the wrathful motion, and the press 
Of desperate men, as cedar boughs by storms. 
Many a white streamer there is dyed with blood, 
Many a false corslet broken, many a shield 
Pierced through ! Now, shout for Santiago, shout ! 
Lo ! javelins with a moment's brightness cleave 
The thickening dust, and barded steeds go down 
With their helm'd riders ! Who, but One, can tell 
How spirits part amidst that fearful rush 
And trampling-on of furious multitudes ? 

Gon. Thou'rt silent ! — See'st thou more 1 My 
soul grows dark. 

Her. And dark and troubled, as an angry sea, 
Dashing some gallant armament in scorn 
Against its rocks, is all on which I gaze ! 
I can but tell thee how tall spears are cross'd, 
And lances seem to shiver, and proud helms 
To lighten with the stroke ! But round the spot 
Where, like a storm-fell'd mast, our standard sank, 
The heart of battle burns. 

Gon. Where is that spot 1 

Her. It is beneath the lonely tuft of palms, 
That lift their green heads o'er the tumult still, 
In calm and stately grace. 

Gon. There didst thou say 1 
Then God is with us, and we must prevail ! 
For on that spot they died : my children's blood 
Calls on th' avenger thence ! 



1 This circumstance is recorded of King Don Alfonso, the 
last of that name. He sent to the Cid's tomb for the cross 
which that warrior was accustomed to wear upon his breast 



Elm. They perish'd there ! 
— And the bright locks that waved so joyously 
To the free winds, lay trampled and defiled 
Even on that place of death ! Merciful ! 
Hush the dark thought within me ! 

Her. (with sudden exultation.) Who is he, 
On the white steed, and with the castled helm, 
And the gold-broider'd mantle, which doth float 
E'en like a sunny cloud above the fight ; [gleams 
And the pale cross, which from his breast-plate 
With star-like radiance 1 

Gon. (eagerly.) Didst thou say the cross 1 

Her. On his mail'd bosom shines a broad white 
cross, 
And his long plumage through the dark'ning air 
Streams like a snow-wreath. 

Gon. That should be — 

Her. The king ! 
Was it not told to us how he sent, of late, 
To the Cid's tomb, e'en for the silver cross, 
Which he who slumbers there was wont to bind 
O'er his brave heart in fight 1 ? 1 

Gon. (springing up joyfully.) My king ! my king ! 
Now all good saints for Spain ! My noble king ! 
And thou art there ! That I might look once more 
Upon thy face ! But yet I thank thee, heaven ! 
That thou hast sent him, from my dying hands 
Thus to receive his city ! 

[He sinks bach into Elmina's arms. 

Her. He hath clear'd 
A pathway midst the combat, and the light 
Follows his charge through you close living mass, 
E'en as a gleam on some proud vessel's wake 
Along the stormy waters ! 'Tis redeem'd — 
The castled banner ; it is flung once more, 
In joy and glory, to the sweeping winds ! 
There seems a wavering through thePaynim hosts — 
Castile doth press them sore — now, now rejoice ! 

Gon. What hast thou seen 1 

Her. Abdullah falls ! He falls ! 
The man of blood ! — the spoiler ! — he hath sunk 
In our king's path ! Well hath that royal sword 
Avenged thy cause, Gonzalez ! 

They give way, 
The Crescent's van is broken ! On the hills, 
And the dark pine-woods, may the infidel 
Call vainly, in his agony of fear, 
To cover him from vengeance ! Lo ! they fly ! 
They of the forest and the wilderness 
Are scatter'd, e'en as leaves upon the wind ! 



when he went to battle, and had it made into one for himself, 
"because of the faith which he had, that through it he 
should obtain the victory,"— Southey's Chronicle of the Cid. 



292 



THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA. 



Woe to the sons of Afric ! Let the plains, 
And the vine mountains, and Hesperian seas, 
Take their dead unto them ! — that blood shall wash 
Our soil from stains of bondage. 

Gon. (attempting to raise himself.) Set me free ! 
Come with me forth, for I must greet my king, 
After his battle-field ! 

Her. Oh, blest in death ! 
Chosen of heaven, farewell ! Look on the Cross, 
And part from earth in peace ! 

Gon. Now, charge once more ! 
God is with Spain, and Santiago's sword 
Is reddening all the air ! Shout forth "Castile !" 
The day is ours ! I go ; but fear ye not ! 
For Afric's lance is broken, and my sons 
Have won their first good field ! [He dies. 

Elm. Look on me yet ! 
Speak one farewell, my husband ! — must thy voice 
Enter my soul no more ! Thine eye is fix'd — 
Now is my life uprooted — and 'tis well. 

[A sound of triumphant music is heard, and many 
Castilian Knights and Soldiers enter.] 

A Cit. Hush your triumphal sounds, although 
ye come 
E'en as deliverers ! But the noble dead, [hearts 
And those that mourn them, claim from human 
Deep silent reverence. 

[CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON THE " SIEGE OF VALENCIA." 

"Of 'The Siege of Valencia* we say little, for we by no means 
consider it as the happiest of Mrs Hemans's efforts. Not 
that it does not contain, nay, abound with fine passages ; but 
the whole wants vigour, coherence, and compression. The 
story is meagre, and the dialogue too diffuse." — The Rev. Dr 
Morehead in Constable's Magazine for September 1823. 

"The 'Tales and Historic Scenes,' 'The Sceptic,' 'The 
"Welsh Melodies,' 'The Siegeof Valencia, 'and'The Vespers of 
Palermo,' " says Delta, " may all be referred to this epoch of her 
literary career, and are characterised by beauties of a high and 
peculiar stamp. AVith reference to the two latter, it must be 
owned, that if the genius of Mrs Hemans was not essentially 
dramatic, yet that both abound with high and magnificent 
bursts of poetry. It was not easy to adapt her fine taste and 
uniformly high-toned sentiment to the varied aspects of life 
and character necessary to the success of scenic exhibition ; 
and she must have been aware of the difficulties that sur- 
rounded her in that path. If these cannot, therefore, be 
considered as successful tragedies, they hold their places as 
dramatic poems of rich and rare poetic beauty. Indeed, it 
would be difficult, from the whole range of Mrs Hemans's 
writings, to select any thing more exquisitely conceived, more 
skilfully managed, or more energetically written, than the 
Monk's tale in 'The Siege of Valencia.' The description of his 
son, in which he dwells with parental enthusiasm on his 
boyish beauty and accomplishments — of his horror at that 
son's renunciation of the Christian faith, and leaguing with 
the infidel — and of the twilight encounter, in which he took 
the life of his own giving — are all worked out in the loftiest 
spirit of poetry." — Biographical Memoir, p. 16-17. 



Mm. (rising proudly) No, swell forth, Castile ! 
Thy trumpet music, till the seas and heavens, 
And the deep hills, give every stormy note 
Echoes to ring through Spain ! How, know ye not 
That all array'd for triumph, crown'd and robed 
With the strong spirit which hath saved the land, 
E'en now a conqueror to his rest is gone ? 
Fear not to break that sleep, but let the wind 
Swell on with victory's shout ! — He will not hear — 
Hath earth a sound more sad 1 

Her. Lift ye the dead, 
And bear him with the banner of his race 
Waving above him proudly, as it waved 
O'er the Cid's battles, to the tomb wherein 
His warrior sires are gather'd. [They raise the oody. 

Elm. Ay, 'tis thus 
Thou shouldst be honour'd ! And I follow thee, 
With an unfaltering and a lofty step, 
To that last home of glory. She that wears 
In her deep heart the memory of thy love, [God 
Shall thence draw strength for all things; till the 
Whose hand around her hath unpeopled earth, 
Looking upon her still and chasten'd soul, 
Call it once more to thine ! 

(To the Castilians) Awake, I say ! 

Tambour and trumpet, wake ! And let the land 
Through all her mountains hear your funeral peal. 
— So should a hero pass to his repose. 

[Exeunt 



" 'The Siege of Valencia,' 'The Last Constantine,' and other 
poems, were published in the course of the year 1823. This 
volume was marked by more distinct evidences of originality 
than any of Mrs Hemans's previous works. None of her 
after poems contain finer bursts of strong, fervid, indignant 
poetry than 'The Siege of Valencia ;' its story — a thrilling con- 
flict between maternal love and the inflexible spirit of chival- 
rous honour — afforded to her an admirable opportunity of 
giving utterance to the two master interests of her mind. 
It is a tale that will bear a second reading — though, it must 
be confessed that, as in the case of 'The Vespers of Palermo,' 
somewhat of a monotony of colouring is thrown over its 
scenes by the unchanged employment of alofty and enriched 
phraseology, which would have gained in emphasis by its be- 
ing more sparingly used. Ximena, too, all glowing and heroic 
as she is, stirring up the sinking hearts of the besieged citizens 
with her battle-song of the Cid, and dying as it were of that 
strain of triumph — is too spiritual, too saintly, wholly to carry 
away the sympathies. Our imagination is kindled by her 
splendid, high-toned devotion — our tears are called forth by 
the grief of her mother, the stately Elmina, broken down, 
but not degraded, by the agony of maternal affection, to 
connive at a treachery she is too noble wholly to carry through. 
The scenes with her husband are admirable ; some of her 
speeches absolutely startle us with their passion and intensity 
— the following, for instance : — 

' Love ! love ! there are soft smiles and gentle words,' " etc. 

— Chorley's Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 110-12. 

" ' The Siege of Valencia ' is a dramatic poem, but not 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



293 



intended for representation. The story is extremely simple. 
The Moors, who besiege Valencia, take the two sons of the 
governor, Gonzalez, captive, as they come to visit their father, 
and now the ransom demanded for them is the surrender of 
the city: they are to die if the place is not yielded up. 
Elmina, the mother of the boys, and Ximena, their sister, 
are the remaining members of a family to which so dreadful 
an option is submitted. The poem is one of the highest merit. 
The subject is of great dignity, being connected with the 
defence of Spain against the Moors ; and at the same time it 
is of the greatest tenderness, offering a succession of the most 
moving scenes that can be imagined to occur in the bosom of 
a family. The father is firm, the daughter is heroic, the 
mother falters. She finds her way to the Moorish camp, sees 
her children, forms her plan for betraying the town, and then 
is not able to conceal her grief and her design from her hus- 
band. He immediately sends a defiance to the Moors, his 
children are brought out and beheaded, a, sortie is made from 
the besieged city : finally, the king of Spain arrives to the 
rescue ; the wrongs of Gonzalez are avenged ; he himself dies 
in victory ; and the poem closes with a picture of his wife, 
moved by the strongest grief, of which she is yet able to re- 
strain the expression. The great excellence of the poem lies 
in the description of the struggle between the consciousness 
of duty and maternal fondness. We believe none but a 
mother could have written it." — Professor Norton, in 
North American Review for April 1827. 

" The graceful powers of Mrs Hemans in the same walk 
which had been trodden so grandly by Miss Baillie, were 
manifested in her ' Vespers of Palermo, and her ' Siege of 
Valencia.' The latter is a noble work, and as a poem ranks 
with her highest productions, though it is filled too uniformly 
perhaps with the spirit of her own mind, to be very distinc- 
tively dramatic. It has indeed variety, but less of the variety 
of human nature, than of a godlike and exalted nature, which 
belongs to few among mankind, and to them, perhaps, only 
in strange and terrible crises. The steadfastness of the pater- 
nal chieftain , the sterner enthusiasm of the priest, the mother's 
maddening affection, and the gentle heroism of the melan- 
choly Ximena are drawn with individuality, but it is the in- 
dividuality of a common greatness, the apparent appropria- 
tion to many of an essence really the same in all. In her 
own heart the poetess found this pure essence; and when 



she created her Christian patriots at Valencia, she but trans- 
lated herself into a new dialect of manners and motives. Of 
this one elevated material she has, however, made fine dra- 
matic use. The language, while faultless in its measured 
music, has passion to swell its cadences ; the loftiness is never 
languid ; and the flow of the verse is skilfully broken into the 
animated abruptness suitable to earnest dialogue. There are 
many, too, of those sudden glimpses of profound truth in 
which the energy of passion seems to force its rude way, in a 
moment, into regions of the heart that philosophy would take 
hours to survey with its technical language. Thus, when the 
iron-hearted monk is telling the story of his son's disgrace,— 

' Elmina. He died ? 
Hernandez. Not so ! 
—Death ! death ! Why, earth should be a paradise 
To make that name so fearful ! Had he died, 
"With his young fame about him for a shroud, 
I had not learn'd the might of agony 

To bring proud natures low ! No ! he fell off 

Why do I tell thee this ? What right hast thou 
To learn how pass'd the glory from my house ? 
Yet listen. He forsook me ! He that was 
As mine own soul forsook me !— trampled o'er 
The ashes of his sires !— ay, leagued himself 
Even with the infidel, the curse of Spain ; 
And, for the dark eye of a Moorish maid, 
Abjured his faith, his God ! Now, talk of death ! ' 

" The whole of the scene to which the passage belongs, is 
moulded in the highest spirit of tragic verse. The bewilder- 
ment of the mother betrayed into guilt by overpowering affec- 
tion, and the death of the beautiful enthusiast Ximena, are 
sketched in a style of excellence little inferior ; and the pecu- 
liar powers of Mrs Hemans's poetry, less dramatic than decla- 
matory, have full scope in the spirit-stirring address of the 
latter to the fainting host of Valencia, as she lifts in her own 
ancient city the banner of the Cid, and recounts the sublime 
legend of his martial burial. Spain and its romances formed 
the darling theme of Mrs Hemans's muse ; and before leaving 
the subject, she gives us her magnificent series of ballads, the 
" Songs of the Cid," which meet us at the close of the drama, 
as if to form an appropriate chorus to the whole."— William 
Archer Butler, Introductory Notice to National Lyrics 
and Songs for Music. Dublin: 1838.] 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



SONG. 

FOUNDED ON AN ARABIAN ANECDOTE. 

Away ! though still thy sword is red 

With life-blood from my sire, 
No drop of thine may now be shed 

To quench my bosom's fire ; 
Though on my heart 'twould fall more blest 
Than dews upon the desert's breast. 



I've sought thee midst the sons of men, 
Through the wide city's fanes ; 

I've sought thee by the lion's den, 
O'er pathless, boundless plains ; 

No step that mark'd the burning waste, 

But mine its lonely course hath traced. 

Thy name hath been a baleful spell, 

O'er my dark spirit cast ; 
"No thought may dream, no words may tell, 

What there unseen hath pass'd : 



294 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



This wither'd cheek, this faded eye, 
Are seals of thee — behold ! and fly ! 

Hath not my cup for thee been pour'd 
Beneath the palm-tree's shade 1 

Hath not soft sleep thy frame restored 
Within my dwelling laid 1 

What though unknown — yet who shall rest 

Secure — if not the Arab's guest ? 

Haste thee ! and leave my threshold-floor 

Inviolate and pure ! 
Let not thy presence tempt me more, 

■ — Man may not thus endure ! 
Away ! I bear a fetter'd arm, 
A heart that burns — but must not harm. 

Begone ! outstrip the swift gazelle ! 

The wind in speed subdue ! 
Fear cannot fly so swift, so well, 

As vengeance shall pursue ; 
And hate, like love in parting pain, 
Smiles o'er one hope — we meet again ! 

To-morrow — and th' avenger's hand, 

The warrior's dart is free ! 
E'en now, no spot in all thy land, 

Save this, had shelter'd thee ; 
Let blood the monarch's hall profane, — 
The Arab's tent must bear no stain ! 

Fly ! may the desert's fiery blast 

Avoid thy secret way ! 
And sternly, till thy steps be past, 

Its whirlwinds sleep to-day ! 
I would not that thy doom should be 
Assign'd by heaven to aught but me. 



ALP-HORN SONG. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF TIECK. 

What dost thou here, brave Swiss ] 
Forgett'st thou thus thy native clime — 
The lovely land of thy bright spring-time 1 
The land of thy home, with its free delights, 
And fresh green valleys and mountain heights 1 

Can the stranger's yield thee bliss 1 

What welcome cheers thee now ] 
Dar'st thou lift thine eye to gaze around ? 



Where are the peaks, with their snow-wreaths 

crown'd 1 
Where is the song, on the wild winds borne, 
Or the ringing peal of the joyous horn, 
Or the peasant's fearless brow 1 

But thy spirit is far away ! 
Where a greeting waits thee in kindred eyes, 
Where the white Alps look through the sunny skies, 
With the low senn-cabins, and pastures free, 
And the sparkling blue of the glacier-sea, 

And the summits clothed with day ! 

Back, noble child of Tell ! 
Back to the wild and the silent glen, 
And the frugal board of peasant-men ! 
Dost thou seek the friend, the loved one, here 1 — 
Away ! not a true Swiss heart is near, 

Against thine own to swell ! 



THE CROSS OF THE SOUTH. 

[The beautiful constellation of the Cross is seen only in 
the southern hemisphere. The following lines are supposed to 
be addressed to it by a Spanish traveller in South America.] 

In the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread, 
Where savannahs in boundless magnificence 
spread, [high, 

And bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on 
The far Cordilleras unite with the sky. 

The fir-tree waves o'er me, the fire-flies' red light 
With its quick-glancing splendour illumines the 

night; 
And I read in each tint of the skies and the earth, 
How distant my steps from the land of my birth. 

But to thee, as thy lode-stars resplendently burn 
In their clear depths of blue, with devotion I turn, 
Bright Cross of the South ! andbeholdingthee shine, 
Scarce regret the loved land of the olive and vine. 

Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main 
My fathers unfolded the ensign of Spain, 
And planted their faith in the regions that see 
Its urjperishing symbol emblazon'd in thee. 

How oft in their course o'er the oceans unknown, 
Where all was mysterious, and awful, and lone, 
Hath their spirit been cheer'd by thy light, when 

the deep 
Reflected its brilliance in tremulous sleep ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 295 


As the vision that rose to the Lord of the world, 1 
When first his bright banner of faith was unfurl'd; 


TO MISS F. A. L. ON HER BIRTH-DAY. 


Even such, to the heroes of Spain, when their prow 


What Wish can Friendship form for thee, 


Made the billows the path of their glory, wert thou. 


What brighter star invoke to shine 1 — 




Thy path from every thorn is free, 


And to me, as I traversed the world of the west, 


And every rose is thine ! 


Through deserts of beauty in stillness that rest ; 




By forests and rivers untamed in their pride, 


Life hath no purer joy in store, 


Thy hues have a language, thy course is a guide. 


Time hath no sorrow to efface ; 




Hope cannot paint one blessing more 


Shine on ! — my own land is a far distant spot, 


Than memory can retrace ! 


And the stars of thy sphere can enlighten it' not ; 




And the eyes that I love, though e'en now they 


Some hearts a boding fear might own, 


may be [thee ! 


Had Fate to them thy portion given, 


O'er the firmament wandering, can gaze not on 


Since many an eye, by tears alone, 




Is taught to gaze on heaven ! 


But thou to my thoughts art a pure-blazing shrine, 




A fount of bright hopes and of visions divine ; 


And there are virtues oft conceal' d, 


And my soul, as an eagle exulting and free, 


Till roused by anguish from repose ; 


Soars high o'er the Andes to mingle with thee. 


As odorous trees no balm will yield, 




Till from their wounds it flows. 


THE SLEEPER OF MARATHON. 


But fear not thou the lesson fraught 

With Sorrow's chastening power to know ; 


I lay upon the solemn plain, 


Thou need'st not thus be sternly taught 


And by the funeral mound, 


" To melt at others' woe." 


Where those who died not there in vain, 




Their place of sleep had found. 


Then still, with heart as blest, as warm, 




Rejoice thou in thy lot on earth ; 


'Twas silent where the free blood gush'd, 


Ah ! why should Virtue dread the storm, 


When Persia came array'd — 


If sunbeams prove her worth ? 


So many a voice had there been hush'd, 




So many a footstep stay'd. 





I slumber'd on the lonely spot 


WRITTEN ON THE FIRST LEAF OF THE 


So sanctified by death ; 


ALBUM OF THE SAME. 


I slumber'd — but my rest was not 




As theirs, who lay beneath. 


What first should consecrate as thine, 




The volume, destined to be fraught 


For on my dreams, that shadowy hour, 


With many a sweet and playful line, 


They rose — the chainless dead — 


With many a pure and pious thought ? 


All arm'd they sprang, in joy, in power, 




Up from their grassy bed. 


It should be, what a loftier strain 




Perchance less meetly would impart ; 


I saw their spears, on that red field, 


What never yet was pour'd in vain, — 


Flash as in time gone by — 


The blessing of a grateful heart — 


Chased to the seas without his shield, 




I saw the Persian fly. 


For kindness, which hath soothed the hour 




Of anxious grief, of weary pain, 


I woke — the sudden trumpet's blast 


And oft, with its beguiling power, 


Call'd to another fight : 


Taught languid Hope to smile again. 


From visions of our glorious past, 




Who doth not wake in might ] 


Long shall that fervent blessing rest 


1 Constantine. 


On thee and thine ; and, heavenwards borne, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Call down such peace to soothe thy breast, 
As thou wouldst bear to all that mourn. 



TO THE SAME; 

ON THE DEATH OF HER MOTHER. 

Say not 'tis fruitless, nature's holy tear, 
Shed by affection o'er a parent's bier ! 
More blest than dew on Hermon's brow that falls, 
Each drop to life some latent virtue calls, 
Awakes some purer hope, ordain'd to rise, 
By earthly sorrow strengthen'd for the skies; 
Till the sad heart, whose pangs exalt its love, 
With its lost treasure, seeks a home — above. 

But grief will claim her hour, — and He whose eye 
Looks pitying down on nature's agony, 
He, in whose love the righteous calmly sleep, 
Who bids us hope, forbids us not to weep ! 
He, too, hath wept — and sacred be the woes 
Once borne by Him, their inmost source who 

knows, 
Searches each wound, and bids His Spirit bring 
Celestial healing on its dove-like wing ! 

And who but He shall soothe, when one dread 

stroke 
Ties, that were fibres of the soul, hath broke ? 
Oh ! well may those, yet lingering here, deplore 
The vanish'd light, that cheers their path no more ! 
Th' Almighty hand, which many a blessing dealt, 
Sends its keen arrows not to be unfelt ! 
By fire and storm, heaven tries the Christian's worth, 
And joy departs, to wean us from the earth, 
Where still too long, with beings born to die, 
Time hath dominion o'er Eternity. 

Yet not the less, o'er all the heart hath lost, 
Shall Faith rejoice, when Nature grieves the most. 
Then comes her triumph ! through the shadowy 

gloom, 
Her star in glory rises from the tomb, 
Mounts to the day-spring, leaves the cloud below, 
And gilds the tears that cease not yet to flow ! 
Yes, all is o'er ! fear, doubt, suspense are fled — 
Let brighter thoughts be with the virtuous dead ! 
The final ordeal of the soul is past, 
And the pale brow is seal'd to heaven at last ! * 

1 " Till we have sealed the servants of God in their fore- 
heads." — Revelation. 



And thou, loved spirit ! for the skies mature, 
Steadfast in faith, in meek devotion pure ; 
Thou that didst make the home thy presence 

bless'd 
Bright with the sunshine of thy gentle breast, 
Where peace a holy dwelling-place had found, 
Whence beam'd her smile benignantly around ; 
Thou, that to bosoms widow'd and bereft 
Dear, precious records of thy worth hast left, 
The treasured gem of sorrowing hearts to be, 
Till heaven recall surviving love to thee ! 

cherish'd and revered ! fond memory well 
On thee, with sacred, sad delight, may dwell ! 
So pure, so blest thy life, that Death alone 
Could make more perfect happiness thine own. 
He came : thy cup of joy, serenely bright, 
Full to the last, still flow'd in cloudless light ; 
He came — an angel, bearing from on high 
The all it wanted — Immortality ! 



FEOM THE SPANISH OF GAECILASO DE 
LA VEGA. 

Divine Eliza ! — since the sapphire sky 
Thou measur'st now on angel wings, and feet 
Sandall'd with immortality — oh, why 
Of me forgetful ? Wherefore not entreat 
To hurry on the time, when I shall see 
The veil of mortal being rent in twain, 
And smile that I am free ] 

In the third circle of that happy land, 
Shall we not seek together, hand in hand, 
Another lovelier landscape, a new plain, 
Other romantic streams and mountains blue, 
And other vales, and a new shady shore, 
When I may rest, and ever in my view 
Keep thee, without the terror and surprise 
Of being sunder'd more ! 



FROM THE ITALIAN OF SANNAZARO. 

Oh ! pure and blessed soul, 

That, from thy clay's control 
Escaped, hast sought and found thy native sphere, 

And from thy crystal throne 

Look'st down, with smiles alone, 
On this vain scene of mortal hope and fear ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



297 



Thy happy feet have trod 

The starry spangled road, 
Celestial flocks by field and fountain guiding 

And from their erring track 

Thou charm'st thy shepherds back, 
With the soft music of thy gentle chiding. 

Oh ! who shall Death withstand — 

Death, whose impartial hand 
Levels the lowest plant and loftiest pine ! 

When shall our ears again 

Drink iu so sweet a strain, 
Our eyes behold so fair a form as thine ! 



APPEARANCE OF THE SPIRIT OF THE 
CAPE TO VASCO DE GAMA. 

(translated from the fifth book of the lusiad of 

CAMOENS.) 

Propitious winds our daring bark impell'd 
O'er seas which mortal ne'er till then beheld, 
When as one eve, devoid of care, we stood 
Watching the prow glide swiftly through the flood, 
High o'er our heads arose a cloud so vast, 
O'er sea and heaven a fearful shade it cast : 
Awful, immense, it came ! so thick, so drear, 
Its gloomy grandeur chill'd our hearts with fear, 
And the dark billow heaved with distant roar, 
Hoarse, as if bursting on some rocky shore. 

Thrill'd with amaze, I cried, " Supernal Power ! 
What mean the omens of this threatening hour ! 
What the dread mystery of this ocean-clime, 
So darkly grand, so fearfully sublime ?" 
Scarce had I spoke, when lo ! a mighty form, 
Tower'd through the gathering shadows of the 

storm ; 
Of rude proportions and gigantic size, 
Dark features, rugged beard, and deep-sunk eyes ; 
Fierce was his gesture, and his tresses flew, 
Sable his lips, and earthly pale his hue. 
Well may I tell thee that his limbs and height, 
In vast dimensions and stupendous might, 
Surpass'd that wonder, once the sculptor's boast, 
The proud Colossus of the Rhodian coast. 
Deep was his voice — in hollow tones he spoke, 
As if from ocean's inmost caves they broke ; 
And but that form to view, that voice to hear, 
Spread o'er our flesh and hair cold deadly thrills 

of fear. 



"0 daring band !" he cried, "far, far more bold 
Than all whose deeds recording fame has told ; 
Adventurous spirits ! whom no bounds of fear 
Can teach one pause in rapine's fierce career ; 
Since, bursting thus the barriers of the main, 
Ye dare to violate my lonely reign, 
Where, till this moment, from the birth of time, 
No sail e'er broke the solitude sublime : 
Since thus ye pierce the veil by Nature thrown 
O'er the dark secrets of the Deep Unknown, 
Ne'er yet reveal'd to aught of mortal birth, 
Howe'er supreme in power, unmatch'd in worth — 
Hear from my lips what chastisements of fate, 
Rash, bold intruders ! on your course await ! 
What countless perils, woes of darkest hue, 
Haunt the vast main and shores your arms must 
yet subdue ! 

"Know that o'er every bark, whose fearless helm 
Invades, like yours, this wide mysterious realm, 
Unmeasured ills my arm in wrath shall pour, 
And guard with storms my own terrific shore ! 
And on the fleet, which first presumes to brave 
The dangers throned on this tempestuous wave, 
Shall vengeance burst, ere yet a warning fear, 
Have time to prophesy destruction near ! 

" Yes, desperate band ! if right my hopes divine, 
Revenge, fierce, full, unequall'd, shall be mine ! 
Urge your bold prow, pursue your venturous way — 
Pain, Havoc, Ruin, wait their destined prey ! 
And your proud vessels, year by year, shall find 
(If no false dreams delude my prescient mind) 
My wrath so dread in many a fatal storm, 
Death shall be deem'd misfortune's mildest form. 

"Lo ! where my victim comes ! — of noble birth, 
Of cultured genius, and exalted worth, 
With her, 1 his best beloved, in all her charms, 
Pride of his heart, and treasure of his arms ! 
From foaming waves, from raging winds they fly, 
Spared for revenge, reserved for agony ! 
Oh ! dark the fate that calls them from their home, 
On this rude shore, my savage reign, to roam, 
And sternly saves them from a billowy tomb, 
For woes more exquisite, more dreadful doom ! 
— Yes ! he shall see the offspring, loved in vain, 
Pierced with keen famine, die in lingering pain ; 
Shall see fierce Caffres every garment tear, 
From her, the soft, the idolised, the fair ; 
Shall see those limbs, of nature's finest mould, 
Bare to the sultry sun, or midnight cold, 

1 Don Emmanuel de Sonsa, and his wife, Leonora de Sa. 



298 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And, in long wanderings o'er a desert land, 
Those tender feet imprint the scorching sand. 

" Yet more, yet deeper woe, shall those behold 
Who live through toils unequall'd and untold ! 
On the wild shore, beneath the burning sky, 
The hapless pair, exhausted, sink to die ! 
Bedew the rock with tears of pain intense, 
Of bitterest anguish, thrilling every sense; 
Till in one last embrace, with mortal throes, 
Their struggling spirits mount from anguish to 



As the dark phantom sternly thus portray'd 
Our future ills, in Horror's deepest shade, — 
" Who then art thou ?" I cried. " Dread being, tell 
Each sense thus bending in amazement's spell ! " 
— With fearful shriek, far echoing o'er the tide, 
Writhing his lips and eyes, he thus replied : 
" Behold the genius of that secret shore 
Where the wind rages and the billows roar — 
That stormy Cape, for ages mine alone, 
To Pompey, Strabo, Pliny, all unknown ! 
Far to the southern pole my throne extends, 
That hidden rock, which Afric's region ends. 
Behold that spirit, whose avenging might, 
Whose fiercest wrath your daring deeds excite." 

Thus having said, with strange, terrific cries, 
The giant-spectre vanish'd from our eyes ; 
In sable clouds dissolved — while far around, 
Dark ocean's heaving realms his parting yells 
resound ! 



A DIKGE. 

Weep for the early lost ! — 
How many flowers were mingled in the crown 
Thus, with the lovely, to the grave gone down, 

E'en when life promised most ! 
How many hopes have wither'd ! They that bow 
To heaven's dread will, feel all its mysteries now. 

Did the young mother's eye 
Behold her child, and close upon the day, 
Ere from its glance th' awakening spirit's ray 

In sunshine could reply 1 
— Then look for clouds to dim the fairest morn ! 
Oh ! strong is faith, if woe like this be borne. 

For there is hush'd on earth 
A voice of gladness — there is veil'd a face, 



Whose parting leaves a dark and silent place 

By the once-joyous hearth ; 
A smile hath pass'd, which fill'd its home with light, 
A soul, whose beauty made that smile so bright ! 

But there is power with faith ! 
Power, e'en though nature o'er the untimely grave 
Must weep, when God resumes the gem He gave; 

For sorrow comes of Death, 
And with a yearning heart we linger on, [gone ! 
When they, whose glance unlock'd its founts, are 

But glory from the dust, 
And praise to Him, the merciful, for those 
On whose bright memory love may still repose 

With an immortal trust ! 
Praise for the dead, who leave us, when they part, 
Such hope as she hath left — " the pure in heart !" 

1823. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 

TO VENUS. 

BOOK I., ODE XXX. 

Oh ! leave thine own loved isle, 
Bright Queen of Cyprus and the Paphian shores ! 

And here in Glycera's fair temple smile, 
Where vows and incense lavishly she pours. 

Waft here thy glowing son ; 
Bring Hermes; let the Nymphs thy path surround, 

And youth, unlovely till thy gifts be won, 
And the light Graces with the zone unbound. 



TO HIS ATTENDANT. 

BOOK L, ODE XXXVIII. 

I hate the Persian's costly pride : 
The wreaths with bands of linden tied- 

These, boy, delight me not ; 
Nor where the lingering roses bide 

Seek thou for me the spot. 
For me be naught but myrtle twined — 
The modest myrtle, sweet to bind 

Alike thy brows and mine, 
While thus I quaff the bowl, reclined 

Beneath th' o'erarching vine. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. 299 




To-morrow shall a sportive kid be thine, [might : 


TO DELIUS. 


Whose forehead swells with horns of infant 


■Rnmr tt n*n"R ttt 


Ev'n now of love and war he dreams in vain, 


DvvH ■*■■*-*} K/±J±U J-ii-. 


Doom'd with his blood thy gelid wave to stain. 


Firm be thy soul ! — serene in power, 




When adverse fortune clouds the sky; 


Let the red dog-star burn ! — his scorching beam 


Undazzled by the triumph's hour, 


Fierce in resplendence shall molest not thee ! 


Since, Delius, .thou must die — ■ 


Still shelter'd from his rays, thy banks, fair stream ! 




To the wild flock around thee wandering free, 


Alike, if still to grief resign'd, 


And the tired oxen from the furrow'd field, 


Or if, through festal days, 'tis thine 


The genial freshness of their breath shall yield. 


To quaff, in grassy haunts reclined, 




The old Falernian wine — 


And thou, bright fount ! ennobled and renown'd 




Shalt by thy poet's votive song be made; 


Haunts where the silvery poplar-boughs 


Thou and the oak with deathless verdure crown'd, 


Love with the pine's to blend on high, 


Whose boughs, a pendant canopy, o'ershade 


And some clear fountain brightly flows 


Those hollow rocks, whence, murmuring many a 


In graceful windings by. 


tale, 




Thy chiming waters pour upon the vale. 


There be the rose with beauty fraught, 




So soon to fade, so brilliant now; 




There be the wine, the odours brought, 




While time and fate allow ! 






TO FAUNUS. 


For thou, resigning to thine heir 




Thy halls, thy bowers, thy treasured store, 


BOOK III., ODE XVIII. 


Must leave that home, those woodlands fair, 




On yellow Tiber's shore. 


Faunus ! who lovest the flying nymphs to chase, 




Oh, let thy steps with genial influence tread 


What then avails it, if thou trace 


My sunny fields, and be thy fostering grace 


From Inachus thy glorious line? 


Soft on my nursling groves and borders shed ; 


Or, sprung from some ignoble race, 




If not a roof be thine? 


If, at the mellow closing of the year, 




A tender kid in sacrifice be thine, 


Since the dread lot for all must leap 


Nor fail the liberal bowls to Venus dear, 


Forth from the dark revolving urn, 


Nor clouds of incense to thine antique shrine. 


And we must tempt the gloomy deep, 




Whence exiles ne'er return. 


Joyous each flock in meadow herbage plays, 




When the December feast returns to thee; 





Calmly the ox along the pasture strays, 




With festal villagers from toil set free. 


TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA. 






Then from the wolf no more the lambs retreat, 


BOOK III., ODE Xin. 


Then shower the woods to thee their foliage 




round; 


Oh! worthy fragrant gifts of flowers and wine, 


And the glad labourer triumphs that his feet 


Bandusian fount, than crystal far more bright ! 


In triple dance have struck the hated ground. 





300 



DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 

A TRAGEDY.* 

["About this time, Mrs Hemans was engaged in the composition of another tragedy, entitled 'De Chatillon, or, The Crusaders;' 
in which, with that deference to fair criticism which she was always ready to avow, and to act upon, she made it her purpose to 
attempt a more compressed style of writing, avoiding that redundancy of poetic diction which had been censured as the pre- 
vailing fault of ' The Vespers.' It may possibly be thought that in the composition in question she has fallen into the opposite 
extreme of want of elaboration ; yet, in its present state, it is, perhaps, scarcely amenable to criticism — for, by some strange 
accident, the fair copy transcribed by herself was either destroyed or mislaid in some of her subsequent removals, and the piece 
was long considered as utterly lost. Nearly two years after her death, the original rough MS., with all its hieroglyphical blots 
and erasures, was discovered amongst a mass of forgotten papers ; and it has been a task of no small difficulty to decipher it, 
and complete the copy now first given to the world. Allowances must, therefore, be made for the disadvantages under which 
it appears,— thus deprived of her own finishing touches, and with no means of ascertaining how far it may differ from the copy 
so unaccountably missing." — Memoir, p. 80-1.] 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Rainier de Chatillon, A French Baron. 
Aymer, His Brother. 
Melech, A Saracen Emir. 
Herman, -j 



Du Mornay, 



Gaston, A Vassal o/Rainier's. 

Urban, A Priest. 

Sad;. 



Moraima, Daughter of Melech. 
Knights, Arabs, Citizens, $c. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — Before the gates of a city in Palestine. 

Urban, Priests, Citizens, at the gates. Others 
looking from the walls above. 

Urb. (to a Citizen on the walls above.) 
You see their lances glistening ] You can tell 
The way they take 1 

Cit. Not yet. Their march is slow ; 
They have not reach'd the jutting cliff, where first 
The mountain path divides. 

Urb. And now ] 

Cit. The wood out- 

Shuts o'er their track. Now spears are flashing 
It is the banner of De Chatillon. 
( Very slow and mournful military music without.) 
This way ! they come this way ! 

Urb. All holy saints [sounds 

Grant that they pass us not ! Those martial 
Have a strange tone of sadness ! Hark, they swell 
Proudly, yet full of sorrow. 



Rainier de Chatillon enters 
soldiers, &c. 

Welcome, knights ! 



knights, 



Ye bring us timely aid ! men's hearts were full 
Of doubt and terror. Brave De Chatillon ! 
True soldier of the Cross ! I welcome thee ; 
I greet thee with all blessing ! Where thou art 
There is deliverance ! 



Rai. {bending to receive the Priest's blessing.) 
Holy man, I come 
From a lost battle. 

Urb. And thou bring'st the heart 
Whose spirit yields not to defeat. 

Rai. I bring 
My father's bier. 

Urb. His bier ! I marvel not 
To see your brow thus darken'd ! And he died, 
As he had lived, in arms'? 

Rai. (gloomily) Not, not in arms — 
His war-cry had been silenced. Have ye place 
Amidst your ancient knightly sepulchres 
For a warrior with his sword ? He bade me bear 
His dust to slumber here. 

Urb. And it shall sleep 
Beside our noblest, while we yet can call 
One holy place our own ! Heard you, my lord, 
That the fierce Kaled's host is on its march 
Against our city ? [know ! 

Rai. (with sudden exultation) That were joy to 
That were proud joy! — Who told it 1 ? — there's a 

weight 
That must be heaved from off my troubled heart 
By the strong tide of battle ! Kaled ! — ay, 
A gallant name ! How heard you 1 

Urb. Nay, it seem'd 
As if a breeze first bore the rumour in. 
I know not how it rose ; but now it comes 
Like fearful truth, and we were sad, thus left 

1 First published in Edition of Collected Works, vol. iv. 
1840. 



DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



301 



Hopeless of aid or counsel — till we saw 

Rai. {hastily) You have my brother here 1 

Urb. {vdth embarrassment) We have; but he 

Rai But he — but he ! — Aymer de Chatillon ! 
The fiery knight — the very soul o' the field — 
Rushing on danger with the joyous step 
Of a hunter o'er the hills ! — is that a tone 
Wherewith to speak of him ? I heard a tale — 
If it be true — nay, tell me ! 

Urb. He is here : 
Ask him to tell thee. 

Rai. If that tale be true 

{He turns suddenly to his companions) 
— Follow me, give the noble dead his rites, 
And we will have our day of vengeance yet, 
Soldiers and friends ! [Exeunt omnes. 



Scene II. — A Hall of Oriental architecture, 
opening upon gardens. A fountain in the centre. 

Aymer de Chatillion, Moraima. 

Mor. (bending over a couch on which her brother 
is sleeping.) 
He sleeps so calmly now; the soft wind here 
Brings in such lulling sounds ! Nay, think you not 
This slumber will restore him ? See you not 
His cheek's faint glow 1 [gave 

Aym. {turning away) It was my sword which 
The wound he dies from ! 

Mor. Dies from ! say not so ! 
The brother of my childhood and my youth, 
My heart's first friend ! — Oh ! I have been too weak, 
I have delay'd too long ! He could not sue, 
He bade me urge the prayer he would not speak, 
And I withheld it ! Christian, set us free ! 
You have been gentle with us ! 'tis the weight, 
The bitter feeling, of captivity 
Which preys upon his life ! 

Aym. You would go hence 1 

Mor. For his sake ! 

Aym. You would leave me ! 'Tis too late ! 
You see it not — you know not, that your voice 
Hath power in its low mournfulness to shake 
Mine inmost soul 1 — that you but look on me, 
With the soft darkness of your earnest eyes, 
And bid the world fade from me, and call up 
A thousand passionate dreams, which wrap my life 
As with a troubled cloud] The very sound 
Of your light step hath made my heart o'erflow, 
Even unto aching, with the sudden gush 
Of its deep tenderness ! You know it not 1 
—Moraima ! — speak to me ! [weep ! 

Mor. {covering herself with her veil.) I can but 



Is it even so ?- — this love was born for tears ! 
Aymer ! I can but weep ! {going to leave him, he 
detains her.) [arms ; 

Aym. Hear me, yet hear me ! I was rear'd in 
And the proud blast of trumpets, and the shouts 
Of banner'd armies — these were joy to me, 
Enough of joy ! Till you ! — I look'd on you — 
We met where swords were flashing, and the light 
Of burning towers glared wildly on the slain — 
And then 

Mor. {hurriedly) Yes ! then you saved me ! 

Aym. Then I knew, 
At once, what springs of deeper happiness 
Lay far within my soul ; and they burst forth 
Troubled and dash'd with fear — yet sweet! I 

loved ! 
Moraima ! leave me not ! 

Mor. For us to love ! 
Oh ! is 't not taking sorrow to our hearts, 
Binding her there 1 ? I know not what I say ! 
How shall I look upon my brother 1 Hark ! 
Did he not call? {she goes up to the couch) 

Aym. Am I beloved"? She wept 
With a full heart ! I am ! and such deep joy 
Is found on earth ! If I should lose her now ! 

If aught [an attendant enters. 

{To attendant.) You seek me ! — why is this 1 

Att. My lord, 
Your brother and his knights ■ 

Aym. Here! are they here 1 
The knights — my brother, saidst thou 1 

A tt. Yes, my lord, 
And he would speak with you. 

Aym. I see — I know — ['tis vain, 

{To attendant.) Leave me ! I know why he is come : 
They shall not part us ! 

{Looking bach on Moraima as he goes out.) 
What a silent grace 
Floats round her form ! They shall not part us ! no ! 
[Exit — Scene closes. 



Scene III. — A square of the city — a church in the 
background. 



Rainier de Chatillon. 



Rai. (walking to and fro impatiently) 
And dow, too ! now ! My father unavenged, 
Our holy places threaten' d, every heart 
Task'd to its strength ! A knight of Palestine 
Now to turn dreamer, to melt down his soul 
In love-lorn sighs ; and for an infidel ! 
— Will he lift up his eyes to look on mine? 
Will he not hush ! 



302 



DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



Aymer enters. {They look on each other for a 
moment without speaking.) 

Rai. (suppressing his emotion.) So brothers 
meet ! You know- 
Wherefore I come 1 

Aym. It cannot be; 'tis vain. 
Tell me not of it ! 

Hai. How ! you have not heard ] 

(Turning from him.) 

He hath so shut the world out with his dreams, 

The tidings have not reach'd him ! or perchance 

Have been forgotten ! You have captives here 1 

Aym. (hurriedly.) Yes, mine! my own — won by 
the right of arms ! 
You dare not question it. 

Rai. A prince, they say, 
And his fair sister : — is the maid so fair ] 

Aym. (turning suddenly upon him.) 
What, you would see her ! 

Rai. (scornfully) I ! — oh, yes ! to quell 
My soul's deep yearnings ! Let me look on swords. 
Boy, boy ! recall yourself ! — I come to you 
With the last blessing of our father ! 

Aym. Last ! 
His last ! — how mean you % Is he 

Rai. Dead? — yes! dead. 
He died upon my breast. 

Aym. (with the deepest emotion.) And I was here! 
Dead ! — and upon your breast ! You closed his 

eyes- 
While I — he spoke of me 1 

Rai. With such deep love ! 
He ever loved you most ! His spirit seem'd 
To linger for your coming. 

Aym. What ! he thought 
That I was on my way ! He look'd for me 1 
And I 

Rai. You came not ! I had sent to you, 
And told you he was wounded. 

Aym. Yes — but not — 
Not mortally ! 

Rai. 'Twas not that outward wound — 
That might have closed; and yet he surely thought 
That you would come to him ! He call'd on you 
When his thoughts wander'd ! Ay, the very night, 
The very hour he died, some hasty step 
Enter'd his chamber — and he raised his head, 
With a faint lightning in his eyes, and ask'd 
If it were yours ! That hope's brief moment pass'd — 
He sank then. 

Aym. (throwing himself upon his brothers neck.) 
Brother ! take me to his grave, 
That I may kneel there, till my burning tears, 



With the strong passion of repentant love, 
Wring forth a voice to pardon me ! 

Rai. You weep ! 
Tears for the garlands on a maiden's grave ! 
You know not how he died ! 

Aym. Not of his wound 1 

Rai. His wound ! — it is the silent spirit's wound, 
We cannot reach to heal ! One burning thought 
Prey'd on his heart. 

Aym. Not — not — he had not heard — 
He bless'd me, Rainier 1 

Rai. Have you flung away 
Your birthright 1 Yes! hebless'dyou! — buthedied 
— He whose name stood for Victory's — he believed 
The ancient honour from his gray head fall'n, 
And died — he died of shame / 

Aym. What feverish dream — 

Rai. (vehemently.) Was it not lost, the warrior's 
latest field, 
The noble city held for Palestine 
Taken — the Cross laid low 1 I came too late 
To turn the tide of that disastrous fight, 
But not to rescue him. We bore him thence 
Wounded, upon his shield 

Aym. And I was here ! 

Rai. He cast one look back on his burning towers, 
Then threw the red sword of a hundred fields 
To the earth — and hid his face ! I knew, I knew 
His heart was broken ! Such a death for him I 
— The wasting — the sick loathing of the sun — 
Let the foe's charger trample out my life, 
Let me not die of shame ! But we will have — 
Aym. (grasping his hand eagerly.) Yes! vengeance! 
Rai. Vengeance ! By the dying once, 
And once before the dead, and yet once more 
Alone with heaven's bright stars, I took that vow 
For both his sons ! Think of it, when the night 
Is dark around you, and in festive halls 
Keep your soul hush'd, and think of it ! 

A low Chant of female voices, heard from behind 
the scenes. 

Fall'n is the flower of Islam's race ! 

Break ye the lance he bore, 
And loose his war-steed from its place : 
He is no more — 
Single voice. No more ! 

Weep for him mother, sister, bride ! 
He died, with all his fame — 
Single voice. He died ! 

Aym. (Pointing to a palace, and eagerly speaking 

to his attendant, who enters.) 
Came it not thence 1 Rudolf, what sounds are these 1 



DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



303 



A tt. The Moslem prince, your captive — he is dead : 
It is the mourners' wail for him. 

Aym. And she — 
His sister — heard you — did they say she wept 1 

[Hurrying away. 
Rai. {indignantly.) All the deep stirring tones 
of honour's voice 
In a moment silenced ! [Solemn military music. 

{A funeral procession, with priests, &c, crosses the 
background to enter the church.) 

Rai. {following Atmer and grasping his arm.) 
Aymer ! there — look there ! 
It is your father's bier ! 

Aym. {returning.) He bless'd me, Rainier 1 
You heard him bless me 1 Yes ! you closed his eyes : 
He look'd for me in vain ! 

[He goes to the bier, and bends over it, cover- 
ing his face. 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — A room in the Citadel. 
Rainier, Aymer, Knights, assembled in council. 

A Knight. What! with our weary and distracted 
bands 
To dare another field ! Nay, give them rest. 

Rai. {impatiently.) Rest ! and that sleepless 
thought 

Knight. These walls have strength 
To baffle siege. Let the foe gird us in — ■ 
We must wait aid ; our soldiers must forget 
That last disastrous day. [combat's press 

Rai. {coming forward.) If they forget it, in the 
May their spears fail them ! 

Knight. Yet, bethink thee, chief. 

Rai. When /forget it how ! you see not, 

knights ! [your thoughts 

Whence we must now draw strength. Send down 
Into the very depths of grief and shame, 
And bring back courage thence ! To talk of rest! 
How do they rest, unburied on their field, 
Our brethren slain by Gaza 1 Had we time 
To give them funeral rites 1 and ask we now 
Time to forget their fall ? My father died — 
I cannot speak of him ! What! and forget 
The infidel's fierce trampling o'er our dead ? 
Forget his scornful shout 1 Give battle now, 
While the thought lives as fire lives ! — there lies 

strength ! 
Hold the dark memory fast ! Now, n o w — this hour ! 



— Aymer, you do not speak ! 

A ym. {starting.) Have I not said 1 
Battle ! — yes, give us battle ! — room to pour 
The troubled spirit forth upon the winds, 
With the trumpet's ringing blast ! Wayforremorse ! 
Free way for vengeance ! 

A 11 the Knights. Arm ! Heaven wills it so ! 

Rai. Gather your forces to the western gate ! 
Let none forget that day ! Our field was lost, 
Our city's strength laid low — one mighty heart 
Broken ! Let none forget it ! [Exeunt. 



Scene II. — Garden of a Palace. 

Moraima. 

Mor. Yes ! his last look — my brother's dyinglook 
Reproach'd me as it faded from his face. 
And I deserved it ! Had I not given way 
To the wild guilty pleadings of my heart, 
I might have won his freedom ! Now, 'tis past. 
He is free now ! 

Atmer enters, armed as for battle. 

Aymer ! you look so changed ! 

Aym. Changed! — it may be. A storm o' the 
soul goes by 
Not like a breeze ! There's such a fearful grasp 
Fix'd on my heart ! Speak to me — lull remorse! 
Bid me farewell ! 

Mor. Yes ! it must be farewell ! 
No other word but that. 

Aym. No other word ! 
The passionate, burning words that I could pour 
From my heart's depths ! 'Tis madness ! What 

have I 
To do with love ? I see it all — the mist 
Is gone — the bright mist gone ! I see the woe, 
The ruin, the despair ! And yet I love, 
Love wildly, fatally ! But speak to me ! 
Fill all my soul once more with reckless joy ! 
That blessed voice again ! 

Mor. Why, why is this ? 
Oh ! send me to my father ! We must part. 

Aym. Part! — yes, I know it all ! I could not go 
Till I had seen you ! Give me one farewell, 
The last — perchance the last ! — but one farewell, 
Whose mournful music I may take with me 
Through tumult, horror, death ! 

[A distant sound of trumpets. 

Mor. {starting.) You go to battle ! 

Aym. Hear you not that sound ? 
Yes ! I go there, where dark and stormy thoughts 
Find their free path ! 



304 



DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



Mor. Aymer ! who leads the foe ? [is he, 

(Confused.) I meant — I mean — my people ! Who 
My people's leader ? [you seem— 

Aym. Kaled. (Looking at her suspiciously.) How! 
The name disturbs you ! 

Mor. My last brother's name ! 

Aym. Fear not my sword for him ! 

Mor. (turning away. If they should meet ! 
I know the vow he made. 

(To Aymer.) If thou— if thou 
Shouldst fall ! 

Aym. Moraima ! then your blessed tears 
Would flow for me? then you would weep for me? 

Mor. I must weep tears of very shame ; and 
yet— 
If — if your words have been love's own true words, 
Grant me one boon ! [Trumpet sounds again. 

Aym. Hark ! I must hence. A boon ! 
Ask it, and hold its memory to your heart, 
As the last token, it may be, of love 
So deep and sad. 

Mor. Pledge me your knightly faith ! 

A ym. My knightly faith, my life, my honour— all, 
I pledge thee all to grant it ! 

Mor. Then, to-day, 
Go not this day to battle ! He is there, 
My brother Kaled ! 

Aym. (wildly.) Have I flung my sword 
Down to dishonour ? 

[Going to leave her — she detains him. 

Mor. Oh ! your name hath stirr'd 
His soul amidst his tents, and he had vow'd, 
Long ere we met, to cross his sword with yours, 
Till one or both should fall. There hath been 

death 
Since then, amongst us ; he will seek revenge. 
And his revenge — forgive me ! — oh ! forgive ! 
— I could not bear that thought ! 

Aym. Now must the glance 
Of a brave man strike me to the very dust ! 
Ay, this is shame. [Covering his face. 

(Turning wildly to Moraima) 
You scorn me too? Away ! — She does not know 
What she hath done ! [Rushes out. 



Scene III. — Before a gateway within the city. 

Rainier, Herman, Knights, Men-at-arms, &c. 

Her. 'Tis past the hour. [hour — 

Rai. (looking out anxiously) Away ! 'tis not the 
Not yet ! When was the battle's hour delay'd 
For a Chatillon ? We must have come too soon ! 
All are not here. 



Her. Yes, all ! 

Rai. They came too soon ! 

[Going up to the Tonights. 
Couci, De Foix, Du Mornay — here, all here ! 
And he the last ! — my brother ! 

(To a Soldier.) Where's your lord 1 
(Turning away) Why should I ask, when that 
fair Infidel 

Aymer enters. 

The Saracen at our gates — and you the last ! 
Come on, remember all your fame ! [fame ! 

, Aym. (coming forward in great agitation.) My 
— Why did you save me from the Paynim's sword, 
In my first battle ? 

Rai. What wild words are these ? [then ! 

Aym. You should have let me perish then — yes, 
Go to your field and leave me ! 
Knights, (thronging round him.) Leave you ! 

Rai. Aymer ! 
Was it your voice ? 

Aym. Now talk to me of fame ! 
Tell me of all my warlike ancestors, 
And of my father's death — that bitter death ! 
Never did pilgrim for the fountains thirst 
As I for this day's vengeance ! To your field ! 
— I may not go ! [borne 

Rai. (turning from him) The name his race hath 
Through a thousand battles — lost ! 

(Returning to Aymer.) A Chatillon ! 
Will you live and wed dishonour ? 

Aym. (covering his face.) Let the grave 
Take me and cover me ! I must go down 
To its rest without my sword ! [brother ! 

Rai. There's some dark spell upon him ! Aymer, 
Let me not die of shame ! He that died so 
Turn'd sickening from the sun ! 

Aym. Where should I turn? 

[Going up abruptly to the Jcnights. 
Herman — Du Mornay ! ye have stood with me 
I' the battle's front — ye know me ! ye have seen 
The fiery joy of danger bear me on 
As a wind the arrow ! Leave me now — 'tis past ! 

Rai. (with bitterness) He comes from her/ — the 
infidel hath smiled, 
Doubtless, for this. 

Aym. I should have been to-day 
Where shafts fly thickest, and the crossing swords 
Cannot flash out for blood ! — Hark ! you are call'd ! 

[Wild Turkish music heard without. The 
background of the scene becomes more and 
more crowded with armed men. 



DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



305 



Lay lance in rest ! — wave, noble banners ! wave ! 
[Throwing down his sword. 
Go from me ! — leave the fallen ! 

Her. Nay, but the cause 1 
Tell us the cause ! 

Rai. (approaching him indignantly. ) 
Your sword — your crested helm [name 

And your knight's mantle — cast them down ! your 
Is in the dust ! — our father's name ! The cause 1 
—Tell it not, tell it not ! 

[Turning to the soldiers and leaving his hand. 
Sound, trumpets ! sound ! 
On, lances ! for the Cross ! 

[Military music. As the knights march out, 
he looks back at Aymer. 

I would not now 
Call back my noble father from the dead, 
If I could with but a breath ! — Sound, trumpets, 
sound ! [Exeunt knights and soldiers. 

Aym. Why should I bear this shame ? 'tis not 

too late ! 
[Rushing after them, he suddenly checks himself. 
My faith ! my knightly faith pledged to my fall ! 

[Exit. 



Scene IV. Before a Church. 

Groups of Citizens passing to and fro. Aymer 
standing against one of the pillars of the church 
in the background, and leaning on his sword. 

1st Cit. (to 2d.) From the walls, how goes the 
battle 1 

2d. Cit. Well, all well, 
Praise to the Saints ! I saw De Chatillon 
Fighting, as if upon his single arm 
The fate o' the day were set. 

3d. Cit. Shame light on those 
That strike not with him in their place ! 

1st Git. You mean 
His brothel Ay, is't not a fearful thing 
I hat one oi such a v ace — a brave one too — ■ 
Should have thus fallen ? 

2d Cit. They say the captive girl 
Whom he so loved, hath won him from his faith 
To the vile Paynim creed. [say that ? 

Aym. (suddenly coming forward.) Who dares 
Show me who dares say that ! 

[They shrink back — he laughs scornfully. 
Ha ! ha ! ye thought 
To play with a sleeper's name ! — to make your 

mirth 
As low-born men sit by a tomb, and jest 



O'er a dead warrior ! Where's the slanderer I 
Speak ! 

A Citizen 



Cit. Haste to the walls ! De Chatillon hath slain 
The Paynim chief ! [They all go out. 

Aym. Why should they shrink? I, I should 
ask the night 
To cover me ! I that have flung my name 
Away to scorn ! Hush ! am I not alone 1 

[Listening eagerly. 
There's a voice calling me — a voice i' the air — 
My father's ! — 'Twas my father's ! Are the dead, 
Unseen, yet with us 1 Fearful ! 
(Loud shouts without, he rushes forward exultingly.) 

'Tis the shout 
Of victory! We have triumph'd ! — We! my place 
Is midst the fallen ! 

[Music heard, ivhich approaches, swelling into 
a triumphant march. Knights enter in 
procession, with banners, torch-bearers, ttc. 
The gates of the church are thrown open, and 
the altar, tombs, <L-c. within, are seen illumi- 
nated. Knights pass over, and enter the 
church. One of them takes a torch, and lifts 
it to Aymer's face in passing. He strikes it 
down with a sword ; then, seeing Rainier 
approach, dropsthe sword, and covers his face. 

Aym. (grasping Rainier by the mantle, as he is 
about to pass.) 
Brother ! forsake me not ! 

Rai. (suddenly drawing his sword, and showing 
it him.) My sword is red [hilt ! 

With victory and revenge ! Look — dyed to the 
— We fought — and where were you 1 
Aym. Forsake me not ! 

Rai. (pointing with his sword to the tombs within 
the church.) [dead, 

Those are proud tombs ! The dead, the glorious 
Think you they sleep, and know not of their sons 
In the mysterious grave 1 We laid him there ! 
— Before the ashes of your father, speak ! 
Have you abjured your faith ] 

Aym. (indignantly.) Your name is mine — your 
blood — and you ask this ! 
Wake him to hear me answer ! — Have you ? No ! 
— You have not dared to think it. 

[Breaks from him, and goes out. 

Rai. (entering the church, and bending over one 
of the tombs.) Not yet lost ! 

Not yet all lost ! He shall be thine again ! 
So shalt thou sleep in peace ! 



306 



DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



Music and Chorus of Voices from the church. 

Praise, praise to heaven ! 
Sing of the conquer d field, the Paynim flying, — 
Light up the shrines, and bid the banners wave! 
Sing of the warrior for the red-cross dying — 
Chant a proud requiem o'er his holy grave ! 

Praise, praise to heaven ! [sky ! 

Praise ! — lift the song through night's resounding 
Peace to the valiant for the Cross that die ! 
Sleep soft, ye brave ! 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — A platform oefore the Citadel. 
Knights entering. 

Her. (to one of the Knights.) You would plead 
for him 1 

Knight. Nay, remember all 
His past renown ! 

Her. I had a friend in youth — 
This Aymer's father had him shamed for less 
Than his son's fault — far less ! 
We must accuse him ; — he must have his shield 
Reversed — his name degraded. 

Knight. He might yet — 

All the Knights. Must his shame cleave to us ? 
We cast him forth — 
We will not bear it. 

Rainier enters. 

Rai. Knights ! ye speak of him — 
My brother — was't not so ] All silent ! Nay, 
Give your thoughts breath ! What said ye ? 

Her. That his name 
Must be degraded. 

Rai. Silence ! ye disturb 
The dead. Thou hear'st, my father ! 

[Going up indignantly to the Knights. 
Which of ye 
Shall first accuse him ? He, whose bold step won 
The breach at Ascalon ere Aymer's step, 
Let him speak first ! 

He that plunged deeper through the stormy fight, 
Thence to redeem the banner of the Cross, 
On Cairo's plain, let him speak first ! Or he 
Whose sword burst swifter o'er the Saracen, 
I' the rescue of our king, by Jordan's waves — ■ 
I say, let him speak first ! 

Her. Is he not an apostate ? 

Rai. No, no, no ! 
If he were that, had my life's blood that taint, 
This hand should pour it out ! He is not that. 



Her. Not yet. 

Rai. Not yet, nor ever ! Let me die 
In a lost battle first ! 

Her. Hath he let go 
Name — kindred — honour — for an infidel, 
And will he grasp his faith 1 

Rai. (after a gloomy pause.) 
That which bears poison — should it not be crush'd? 
What though the weed look lovely 1 

[Suddenly addressing Du Mornay. 
You have seen 
My native halls, Du Mornay, far away 
In Languedoc 1 

Du Mor. I was your father's friend — 
I knew them well. [hangs — 

Rai. (thoughtfully) The weight of gloom that 
The very banners seem to droop with it — [now, 
O'er some of those old rooms ! Were we there 
With a dull wind heaving the pale tapestries, 

Why, I could tell you 

[Coming closer to Du Mornay. 
There's a dark-red spot 
Grain'd in the floor of one — you knqw the tale 1 

Du Mor. I may have heard it by the winter fires, 
— Now 'tis of things gone by. [give 

Rai. (turning from him displeased.) Such legends 
Some minds a deeper tone. 

(To Herman.) If you had heard 
That tale i' the shadowy tower 

Her. Nay, tell it now ! [sounds 

Rai. They say the place is haunted — moaning 
Come thence at midnight—sounds of woman's voice. 

Her. And you believe 

Rai. I but believe the deed 
Done there of old. I had an ancestor — 
Bertrand, the lion-chief — whose son went forth 
(A younger son — I am not of his line) 
To the wars of Palestine. He fought there well- 
Ay, all his race were brave ; but he return'd, 
And with a Paynim bride. 

Her. The recreant ! — say, 
How bore your ancestor 1 

Rai. Well may you think 
It chafed him— but he bore it— for the love 
Of that fair son, the child of his old age. 
He pined in heart, yet gave the infidel 
A place in his own halls. 

Her. But did this last? 

Rai. How should it last? Again the trumpet 
blew, [guard 

And men were summon'd from their homes to 
The city of the Cross. But he seem'd cold — 
That youth ! He shunn'd his father's eye, and took 
No armour from the walls. 



DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



307 



Her. Had he then fallen ? 
Was his faith wavering 1 
Rai. So the father fear'd. 

Her. If i" had been that father 

Rai. Ay, you come done ? 

Of an honour'd lineage. What would you have 
Her. Nay, what did he ? 
Rai. What did the lion-chief? 

[Turning to Du Morn ay. 
Why, thou hast seen the very spot of blood 
On the dark floor ! He slew the Paynim bride. 
Was it not well 1 (He looks at them attentively, and 
as he goes out exclaims — ) 

My brother must not fall ! 

Scene II. — A deserted Turkish burying-ground in 
the city — tombs and stones overthrown — the 
whole shaded by dark cypress-trees. 

Mor. (leaning over a monumental pillar, which 
has been lately raised.) 
He is at rest ; — and I ! — is there no power 
In grief to win forgiveness from the dead ? 
When shall I rest ? Hark ! a step — Aymer's step ! 
The thrilling sound ! 

[She shrinks back as reproaching herself. 
To feel that joy even here ! 
Brother ! oh, pardon me ! 

Rai. (entering, and slowly looking round.) 
A gloomy scene ! 

A place for Is she not an infidel ? 

Who shall dare call it murder ? 

[He advances to her sloidy, and looks at her. 
She is fair — 
The deeper cause ! Maid, have you thought of death 
Midst these old tombs 1 

Mor. (shrinking from him fearfully.) This is my 
brother's grave. [closed 

Rai. Thy brother's ! That a warrior's grave had 
O'er mine — the free and noble knight he was ! 
Ay, that the desert-sands had shrouded him 
Before he look'd on thee ! 

Mor. If you are his— 
If Aymer's brother — though your brow be dark, 
I may not fear you ! 

Rai. No ? why, thou shouldst fear 
The very dust o' the mouldering sepulchre, 
If it had lived, and borne his name on earth ! 
Hear'st thou?— that dust hath stirr'd, and found 

a voice, 
And said that thou must die ! 

Mor. (clinging to the pillar as he approaches.) 
Be with me, heaven ! 
You will not murder me 1 



Rai. (turning away.) A goodly word 
To join with a warrior's name ! — a sound to make 
Men's flesh creep. What ! — for Paynim blood 
Did he stand faltering thus — my ancestor — 
In that old tower 1 

[He again approaches her — she falls on her knees. 

Mor. So young, and thus to die ! 
Mercy — have mercy ! In your own far land 
If there be love that weeps and watches for you, 
And follows you with prayer — even by that love 
Spare me — for it is woman's ! If light steps 
Have bounded there to meet you, clinging arms 
Hung on your neck, fond tears o'erflow'd your 

cheek, 
Think upon those that loved you thus, for thus 
Doth woman love ! and spare me ! — think on them; 
They, too, may yet need mercy ! Aymer, Aymer ! 
Wilt thou not hear and aid me] 

Rai. (starting.) There's a name 
To bring back strength ! Shall I not strike to save 
His honour and his life ? Were his life all 

Mor. To save his life and honour ! — will my 
death 

[She rises and stands before him, covering her 
face hurriedly. 

Do it with one stroke ! I may not live for him ! 

Rai. (with surprise) A woman meet death thus ! 

Mor. ^uncovering her eyes.) Yet one thing more — 
I have sisters and a father. Christian knight ! 
Oh ! by your mother's memory, let them know 
I died with a name unstain'd. 

Rai. (softened and surprised.) 
And such high thotights from her! — an infidel ! 
And she named my mother ! — Once in early youth 
From the wild waves I snatch'd a woman's life ; 
My mother bless'd me for it (slowly dropping his 

dagger) — even with tears 
She bless'd me. Stay, are there no other means'? 
(Suddenly recollecting himself.) Follow me, maiden ! 
Fear not now. 

Mor. But he— 
But Aymer— 

Rai. (sternly) Wouldst thou perish? Name 
him not ! — [thoughts 

Look not as if thou wouldst ! Think'st thou dark 
Are blown away like dew-drops ? or I, like him, 
A leaf to shake and turn i' the changing wind ? 
Follow me, and beware ! 

[She bends over the tomb for a moment, and 
follows him. 
Aymer enters, and slowly comes forward from the, 
background. 



308 



DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



For the last time— yes! it must be the last! 
Earth and heaven say — the last ! The very dead 
Rise up to part us ! But one look — and then 
She must go hence for ever ! Will she weep ? 
It had been little to have died for her — 
I have borne shame. 

She shall know all ! Moraima ! Said they not 
She would be found here at her brother's grave ? 
Where should she go? Moraima! There's the print 
Of her step — what gleams beside it ? 
(Seeing the dagger, he takes it up) Ha ! men work 
Dark deeds with things like this ! 

[Looking wildly and anxiously around. 

I see no blood ! 

[Looking at the dagger. 
Stain'd ! — it may be from battle ; 'tis not — wet. 

[Looks round, intently listening ; then again 
examines the spot. 

Ha ! — what is this ? another step in the grass ! — 
Hers and another's step ! 

[He rushes into the cypress-grove. 



Scene III. — A hall in the citadel, 
and banners. 



with 



Rainier, Herman — Knights in the background, 
laying aside their armour. 

Her. (coming forward and speaking hurriedly.) 
Is it done ? Have you done it ? 

Rai. (with disgust.) What ! you thirst 
For blood so deeply ? 

Her. (indignantly.) Have you struck, and saved 
The honour of your house 1 [soul 

Rai. {thoughtfully to himself) The light i' the 
Is such a wavering thing ! Have I done well ? 

(To Herman.) 
Ask me not ! Never shall they meet again. 
Is 't not enough ? 

Aymer enters hurriedly with the dagger, and goes 

up with it to several of the knights, who begin 

to gather round the front. 

Aym. Whose is this dagger"? 

Rai. (coming forward and taking it.) Mine. 

Aym. Yours ! yours ! — and know you where — 

Rai. (about to sheath it, but stopping) Oh ! you 
do well 
So to remind me ! Yes ! it must have lain 
In the Moslem burial-ground — and that vile dust — 
Hence with it ! 'tis defiled. [Throws it from him. 

Aym. If such a deed 

Brother ! where is she ? 



Rai. Who ? — what knight hath lost 
A Ladye-love ? 

Aym. Could he speak thus, and wear 

That scornful calm, if No ! he is not calm. 

What have you done ? 

Rai. (aside.) Yes ! she shall die to him ! 

Aym. (grasping his arm) What have you done 1 ? 
— speak ! 

Rai. You should know the tale 
Of our dark ancestor, the Lion-Chief, 
And his son's bride. 

Aym. Man ! man ! you murder' d her ! 

[Sinking back. 
It grows so dark around me ! She is dead ! 
( Wildly.) I'll not believe it ! No ! she never look'd 
Like what could die ! [Goes up to his brother. 
If you have done that deed 

Rai. (sternly.) If I have done it, I have flung ofi' 
shame 
From my brave father's house ! 

Aym. (in a low voice to himself.) 
So young, and dead ! — because I loved her — dead ! 

(To Rainier.) 
Where is she, murderer ? Let me see her face. 
You think to hide it with the dust ! — ha ! ha ! 
The dust to cover her I We'll mock you still : 
If I call her back, she'll come ! Where is she ? — 



Now, by my father's tomb ! but I am calm. 

Rai. Never more hope to see her ! 

Aym. Never more ! 

[Sitting down on the , 
I loved her, so she perish'd ! — All the earth 
Hath not another voice to reach my soul, 
Now hers is silent ! Never, never more ! 
If she had but said farewell ! — (Bewildered) It 
grows so dark ! [I shall wake. 
This is some fearful dream. When the morn comes 
My life's bright hours are done ! 

Rai. I must be firm. 

(Takes a banner from the wall, and brings it to 
Aymer.) 

Have you forgotten this 1 We thought it lost, 
But it rose proudly waving o'er the fight 
In a warrior's hand again ! Yours, Aymer ! yours ! 
Brother ! redeem your fame ! 

Aym. (putting it from him) The worthless thing ! 
Fame ! She is dead ! — give a king's robe to one 
Stretch'd on the rack ! Hence with your pageantries 
Down to the dust ! 

Her. The banner of the Cross ! 
Shame on the recreant ! Cast him from us ! 

Rai. Boy ! 



DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



309 



Degenerate boy ! Here, with the trophies won 
By the sainted chiefs of old in Paynim war 
Above you and around; the very air, 
When it but shakes their armour on the walls, 
Murmuring of glorious deeds ; to sit and weep 
Here for an Infidel ! My father's son, 
Shame ! shame ! deep shame ! 

Knights. Aymer de Chatillon ! 
Go from us, leave us ! 

Aym. (starting up.) Leave you! what! ye thought 

That I would stay to breathe the air you breathe! — 

And fight by you ! Murderers ! I burst all ties ! 

[Throivs his sword on the ground before them. 

There's not a thing of the desert half so free ! 

(To Rainier.) 
You have no brother! Live to need the love 
Of a human heart, and steep your soul in fame 
To still its restless yearnings ! Die alone ! 
Midst all your pomps and trophies — die alone ! 

[Going out, he suddenly returns. 
Did she not call on me to succour her 1 
Kneel to you— plead for life 1 The Voice of Blood 
Follow you to your grave ! [Exit. 

Rai. (with emotion.) Alas ! my brother ! 
The time hath been, when in the face of Death 
I have bid him leave me, and he would not ! 
(Turning to the Knights.) Knights ! 
The Soldan marches for Jerusalem — 
We'll meet him on the way. 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — Camp of Melech, the Saracen Emir. 
Melech, Sadi, Soldiers. 

Mel. Yes ! he I mean — Rainier de Chatillon ! 
Go, send swift riders o'er the mountains forth, 
And through the deserts, to proclaim the price 
I set upon his life ! 

Sadi. Thou gav'st the word 
Before ; it hath been done — they are gone forth. 

Mel. Would that my soul could wing them ! 
Didst thou heed 
To say his life ? I'll have my own revenge ! 
Yes ! I would save him from another's hand ! 
Thou said'st he must be brought alive 1 

Sadi. I heard 
Thy will, and I obey'd. 

Mel. He slew my son — 
That was in battle — but to shed her blood ! 
My child Moraima's ! Could he see and strike her 1 
A Christian see her face, too ! From my house 
The crown is gone ! Who brought the tale ? 



Sadi. A slave 
Of your late son's, escaped. 

Mel. Have I a son 
Left 1 speak, the slave of which % Kaled is gone — 
And Octar gone — both, both are fallen — 
Both my young stately trees, and she my flower — 
No hand but mine shall be upon him, none ! — 

[A sound of festive music without. 
What mean they there 1 ? [An attendant enters. 

Att. Tidings of joy, my chief! 

Mel. Joy ! — is the Christian taken 1 

Moraima enters, and throws herself into his arms. 

Mor. Father ! Father ! 
I did not think this world had yet so much 
Of aught like happiness ! 

Mel. My own fair child ! 
Is it on thee I look indeed, my child 1 

[Turning to attendants. 
Away, there ! — gaze not on us ! Do I hold 
Thee in my arms! They told me thou wert slain. 
Rainier de Chatillon, they said 

Mor. (hurriedly.) Oh, no ! 
Twas he that sent thee back thy child, my father. 

Mel. He! why, his brother Aymer still refused 
A monarch's ransom for thee ! 

Mor. (with a momentary delight.) Did he thus ? ■ 

[Suddenly checking herself. 

— Yes ! I knew well ! Oh ! do not speak of him ! 

Mel. What ! hath he wrong'd thee 1 Thou hast 

suffer'd much [child. 

Amongst these Christians ! Thou art changed, my 

There's a dim shadow in thine eye, where once 

But they shall pay me back for all thy tears 
With their best blood. 

Mor. (alarmed.) Father ! not so, not so ! 
They still were gentle with me. But I sat 
And watch'd beside my dying brother's couch 
Through many days : and I have wept since then- 
Wept much. 

Mel. Thy dying brother's couch !— yes, thou 
Wert ever true and kind. 

Mor. (covering her face) Oh ! praise me not ! 
Look gently on me, or I sink to earth ; 
Not thus ! [worn : 

Mel. No praise! thou'rt faint, my child, and 
The length of way hath 

Mor. (eagerly) Yes ! the way was long, 
The desert's wind breath'd o'er me. Could I rest ? 

Mel. Yes ! thou shalt rest within thy father's tent. 
Follow me, gentle child! Thou look'st so changed. 

Mor. (hurriedly) The weary way, — the desert's 

burning wind 

[Laying her hand on him as she goes out. 



310 



DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



Think thou no evil of those Christians, father ! — 
They were still kind. 

Scene II. — Before a Fortress amongst Rocks, with 
a Desert beyond. — Military Music. 

Rainier de Chatillon — Knights and Soldiers. 

Rai. They speak of truce % 

The Knights. Even so. Of truce between 
The Soldan and our King. 

Rai. Let him who fears 
Lest the close helm should wear his locks away, 
Cry " truce," and cast it off. I have no will 
To change mine armour for a masquer's robe, 
And sit at festivals. Halt, lances, there ! 
Warriors and brethren ! hear. I own no truce — 
I hold my life but as a weapon now 
Against the infidel ! He shall not reap 
His field, nor gather of his vine, nor pray 
To his false gods — no ! save by trembling stealth, 
Whilst I can grasp a sword ! Wherefore, noble 

friends, 
Think not of truce with me ! —but think to quaff 
Your wine to the sound of trumpets, and to rest 
In your girt hauberks, and to hold your steeds 
Barded in the hall beside you. Now turn back, 

[He throws a spear on the ground before them. 
Ye that are weary of your armour's load : 
Pass o'er the spear, away ! 

They all shout. A Chatillon ! 
We'll follow thee— all ! all ! 

Rai. A soldier's thanks ! 

[Turns avjayfrom them agitated. 
There's one face gone, and that a brother's ! 

(Aloud.) War!— 
War to the Paynim — war ! March and set up 
On our stronghold the banner of the Cross, 
Never to sink ! 

[Trumpets sound. They march on, winding 
through the rocks with military music. 



Enter Gaston, an aged vassal of Rainier's, as an 

armed follower — Rainier addresses him. 
You come at last ! And she — where left you her 1 
The Paynim maid 1 

Gas. I found her guides, my lord, 
Of her own race, and left her on the way 
To reach her father's tents. 

Rai. Speak low ! — the tale 
Must rest with us. It must be thought she died. 
I can trust you. 

Gas. Your father trusted me. [been 

Rai. He did, he did ! — my father ! You have 



Long absent, and you bring a troubled eye 
Back with you. Gaston ! heard you aught of him ? 

Gas. Whom means my lord 1 

Rai. (impatiently.) Old man, you know too well— 
Aymer, my brother. 

Gas. I have seen him. 

Rai. How! 
Seen him ! Speak on. 

Gas. Another than my chief 
Should have my life before the shameful tale ! 

Rai. Speak quickly. 

Gas. In the desert, as I journey'd back, 
A band of Arabs met -me on the way, 
And I became their captive Till last night — 

Rai. Go on ! Last night ] 

Gas. They slumber'd by their fires — 
/ could not sleep ; when one — I thought him one 
O'the tribe at first — came up and loosed my bonds, 
And led me from the shadow of the tents, 
Pointing my way in silence. 

Rai. Well, and he— 
You thought him one o' the tribe. 

Gas. Ay, till we stood [lord 

In the clear moonlight forth;— and then, my 

Rai. You dare not say 'twas Aymer ? 

Gas. Woe and shame ! 
It was, it was ! 

Rai. In their vile garb too 1 

Gas. Yes, 
Turban'd and robed like them. 

Rai. What !— did he speak] 

Gas. No word, but waved his hand, 
Forbidding speech to me. 

Rai. Tell me no more ! — 
Lost, lost— for ever lost ! He that was rear'd 
Under my father's roof with me, and grew 
Up by my side to glory !— lost ! Is this 
My work ]— who dares to call it mine ] And yet, 
Had I not dealt so sternly with his soul 

In its deep anguish What ! he wears their garb 

I' the face of heaven 1 You saw the turban on him ? 
You should have struck him to the earth, and so 
Put out our shame for ever ! 

Gas. Lift my sword 
Against your father's son ! 

Rai. My father's son ! 
Ay, and so loved !— that yearning love for him 
Was the last thing death conquer'd ! See'st thou 
there] 

[The banner of the Cross is raised on the fortress. 
The very banner he redeem'd for us 
I' the fight at Cairo ! No ! by yon bright sign, 
He shall not perish ! This way— follow me— 
I'll tell thee of a thought. 



DE CHATILLON; OK, THE CRUSADERS. 



311 



(Suddenly stopping him.) Take heed, old man ! 
Thou hast a fearful secret in thy grasp : 
Let me not see thee wear mysterious looks. 
But no ! thou lovest our name ! — I'll trust thee, 
Gaston ! [Exeunt. 



Scene III. — An Arab Encampment round a few 
palm-trees in the Desert — Watch-fires in the 
-Night. 



Several Arabs enter with Aymer. 

Arab Chief. Thou hast fought bravely, stranger ; 
Now, come on 
To share the spoil. 

Aym. I reck not of it. Go, 
Leave me to rest. 

Arab. Well, thou hast earn'd thy rest 
With a red sabre. Be it as thou wilt. 

{They go out. — He throws himself under a 
palm-tree. 
Aym. This were an hour — if they would answer 
us. [comes — 

— They from whose viewless world no answer 
To hear their whispering voices. Would they but 
Speak once, and say they loved ! 
If I could hear thy thrilling voice once more, 
It would be well with me. Moraima ! speak ! 

Rainier enters disguised as a dervise. 

Moraima, speak ! No ! the dead cannot love ! 

Rai. What doth the stranger here ! — is there 
not mirth 
Around the watch-fires yonder ? 

Aym. Mirth ! — away ! — 
I've naught to do with mirth. Begone ! 

Rai. They tell [hear 

Wild tales by that red light ; would'st thou not 
Of Eastern marvels? 

Aym. Hence ! I heed them not. 

Rai. Nay, then hear me ! 

Aym. Thee! 

Rai. Yes, I know a tale 
Wilder than theirs. [know'st ! — 

Aym. (raising himself in surprise) Thou 

Rai. (without minding, continues) A tale of one 
Who flung in madness to the reckless deep 
A gem beyond all price. 

Aym. My day is closed. 
What is aught human unto me ? 

Rai. Yet mark ! 
His name was of the noblest — dost thou heed ? — 
Even in a land of princely chivalry ; 
Brightness was on it — but he cast it down. 



Aym. I will not hear — speak'st thou of chivalry? 

Rai. Yes ! I have been upon thy native hills. 
There's a gray cliff juts proudly from their woods, 
Brown'd with baronial towers — rememberest 

thou? 
And there's a chapel by the moaning sea — 
Thou know'st it well — tall pines wave over it, 
Darkening the heavy banners, and the tombs. 
Is not the cross upon thy fathers' tombs ! — 
Christian ! what dost thou here ? [thou ? 

Aym. (starting up indignantly) Man ! who art 
Thy voice disturbs my soul. Speak ! I will know 
Thy right to question me. 

Rai. (throwing off his disguise, stands before him 
in the full dress of a Crusader.) 
My birth-right ! — look ! 

Aym. Brother! (Retreating fromhimivithhorror) 
— Her blood is on your hands ! — keep back ! 

Rai. (scornfully) Nay, keep the Paynim's garb 
from touching mine. 
Answer me thence ! — what dost thou here ? 

Aym. You shrink [thus ! 

From your own work ! — you, that have made me 
Wherefore are you here ? Are you not afraid 
To stand beneath the awful midnight sky, 
And you a murderer ? Leave me. 

Rai. I lift up 
No murderer's brow to heaven ! 

Aym. You dare speak thus ! — 
Do not the bright stars, with their searching rays, 
Strike through your guilty soul ? Oh, no ! — tis well, 
Passing well ! Murder ! Make the earth's harvests 
grow [air, 

With Paynim blood ! — Heaven wills it ! The free 
The sunshine — I forgot — they were not made 
For infidels. Blot out the race from day ! 
Who talks of murder 1 Murder ! when you die 
Claim your soul's place of happiness i' the name 
Of that good deed ! 

(In a tone of deep feeling) 

If you had loved a flower 
I would not have destroy 'd it ! 

Rai. (with emotion) Brother ! 

Aym. (impetuously) No ! — 
No brother now. She knelt to you in vain ; 
And that hath set a gulf — a boundless gulf — 
Between our souls. Your very face is changed — 
There's a red cloud shadowing it : your forehead 

wears 
The marks of blood — her blood ! 

(In a triumphant tone) 
But you prevail not ! You have made the dead 
The mighty — the victorious ! Yes ! you thought 
To dash her image into fragments down, 



312 



DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



And you have given it power — such deep sad power, 
I see naught else on earth ! 

Rai. (aside.) I dare not say she lives. 

(To Aymer, holding up the cross of his sword.) 

You see not this ! 
Once by our father's grave I ask'd, and here, 
I' the silence of the waste, I ask once more — 
Have you abjured your faith 1 

Aym. Why are you come 
To torture me 1 No, no ! I have not. No ! 
But you have sent the torrent through my soul, 
And by their deep strong roots torn fiercely up 
Things that were part of it — inborn feelings, 

thoughts — 
I know not what I cling to ! 

Rai. Aymer ! yet 
Heaven hath not closed its gates ! Return, return, 
Before the shadow of the palm-tree fades 
I' the waning moonlight. Heaven gives time. 

Return, 
My brother ! By our early days — the love 
That nurtured us ! — the holy dust of those [sleep ! 
That sleep i' the tomb ! — sleep ! no, they cannot 
Doth the night bring no voices from the dead 
Back on your soul 1 

Aym. (turning from him.) Yes — hers! [strive? 

Rai. (indignantly turning off) Why should I 
Why doth it cost me these deep throes to fling 
A weed off? [Checking himself. 

Brother, hath the stranger come 
Between our hearts for ever 1 Yet return — 
Win back your fame, my brother ! 

Aym. Fame again ! 
Leave me the desert ! — leave it me ! I hate 
Your false world's glittering draperies, that press 
down [Your vain 

Th' o'erlabour'd heart ! They have crush'd mine. 
And hollow-sounding words are wasted now : 
You should adjure me by the name of him 
That slew his son's young bride ! — our ancestor — 
That were a spell ! Fame ! fame! — your hand 

hath rent 
The veil from off your world ! To speak of fame, 
When the soul is parch'd like mine ! Away ! 
I have join'd these men because they war with man, 
And all his hollow pomp ! Will you go hence 1 
(Fiercely.) Why do I talk thus with a murderer ? Ay, 
This is the desert, where true words may rise 
Up unto heaven i' the stillness ! Leave it me ! — 
The free wild desert ! 

Arab Chief enters. 

Arab. Stranger, we have shared 
The spoil, forgetting not A Christian here ! 



Ho ! sons of Kedar ! — 'tis De Chatillon ! 

This way ! — surround him ! There's an Emir's 

Set on his life ! Come on ! [wealth 

[Several Arabs rush in and surround Rainier, 
who, after vainly endeavouring to force his 
way through them, is made prisoner. 
Rai. And he stands there [chains ! 

To see me bought and sold ! Death, death ! — not 
[Aymer, who has stood for a moment as if 
bewildered, rushes forward, and strikes down 
one of the Arabs. 
Aym. Off from my brother, infidel ! 

[The others hurry Rainier away. 
(Recollecting himself.) Why, then, heaven 
Is just ! So ! now I see it ! Blood for blood ! 

[Again rushing forward. 
No ! he shall feel remorse! I'll rescue him, 
And make him weep for her ! [Exit. 



ACT V. 

Scene I. — A Hall in the Fortress occupied by De 
Chatillon's followers. 

Knights listening to a Troubadour. 

Her. No more soft strains of love. Good Vidal, 
sing 
The imprison'd warrior's lay. There's a proud tone 
Of lofty sadness in it. 

troubadour sings. 

'Twas a trumpet's pealing sound ! [tower, 
And the knight look'd down from the Paynim's 
And a Christian host in its pride and power 

Through the pass beneath him wound. 
" Cease awhile, clarion ! clarion, wild and shrill, 
Cease ! let them hear the captive's voice — be still ! 

" I knew 'twas a trumpet's note ! 
And I see my brethren's lances gleam, 
And their pennons wave by the mountain -stream, 

And their plumes to the glad wind float. 
" Cease awhile, clarion ! &c. 

" I am here with my heavy chain ! 
And I look on a torrent sweeping by, 
And an eagle rushing to the sky, 

And a host to its battle-plain ! 
Cease awhile, clarion ! &c. 

" Must I pine in my fetters here ? 
With the wild wave's foam, and the free bird's flight, 



DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



313 



And the tall spears glancing on my sight, 

And the trumpet in mine ear ] 
Cease awhile, clarion ! " &C. 1 

Aymee enters hurriedly. 

Aym. Silence, thou minstrel ! silence ! 

Her. Aymer, here ! 
And in that garb ! Seize on the renegade ! 
Knights he must die ! 

Aym. (scornfully.) Die ! die ! — the fearful threat ! 
To be thrust out of this same blessed world, 
Your world — all yours ! (Fiercely.) But I will not 

be made 
A thing to circle with your pomps of death, [die 
Your chains, and guards, and scaffolds ! Back ! I'll 
As the free lion dies ! [Drawing his sabre. 

Her. What seek'st thou here ] [a deed 

Aym. Naught but to give your Christian swords 

"Worthier than Where's your chief? in the 

Paynim's bonds ! 
Made the wild Arabs' prize ! Ay, heaven is just ! 
If ye will rescue him, then follow me : 
I know the way they bore him ! 

Her. Follow thee ! 
Recreant ! deserter of thy house and faith ! 
To think true knights would follow thee again ! 
'Tis all some snare — away ! 

Aym. Some snare ! Heaven ! heaven ! 
Is my name sunk to this 1 Must men first crush 
My soul, then spurn the ruin they have made ] 
— Why, let him perish ! — blood for blood ! — must 

earth 
Cry out in vain 1 Wine, wine ! we'll revel here ! 
On, minstrel, with thy song ! 

troubadour continues the song. 

' " They are gone — they have all pass'd by ! 
They in whose wars I had borne my part, 
They that I loved with a brother's heart, 

They have left me here to die ! 
Sound again, clarion ! clarion, pour thy blast ! 
Sound, for the captive's dream of hope is past ! " 

Aym. (starting up.) That was the lay he loved 
in our boyish days — 
And he must die forsaken ! No, by heaven ! 

1 " She preferred in music whatever was national and 
melancholy; and her strains adapted for singing were, of 
course, framed to the tones most congenial to the tempera- 
ment of her own mind. How successfully wed to the magic 
of sweet sound many of her verses have heen by her sister, no 
lover of music need to be reminded. The ' Roman Girl's 
Song' is full of a solemn classic beauty ; and, in one of her 
letters, it is said that of ' The Captive Knight ' Sir Walter 
Scott never was weary. Indeed, it seems in his mind to 



He shall not ! Follow me ! I say your chief 
Is bought and sold ! Is there no generous trust 
Left in your souls ] De Foix, I saved your life 
At Ascalon ! Du Mornay, you and I 
On Jaffa's wall together set our breasts 
Against a thousand spears ! What ! have I fought 
Beside you, shared your cup, slept in your tents, 

And ye can think ' [.Dashing off his turban. 

Look on my burning brow ! 
Read if there's falsehood branded on it — read 
The marks of treachery there ! 
Knights, (gathering round him.) No, no ! come on ! 
To the rescue ! lead us on ! we'll trust thee still ! 
Aym. Follow, then ! — this way. If I die for him, 
There will be vengeance ! He shall think of me 
To his last hour ! [Exeunt. 



Scene II. — A Pavilion in the Camp of Melech. 

Melech, Sadi. 

Mel. It must be that these sounds and sights 
of war 
Shake her too gentle nature. Yes, her cheek 
Fades hourly in my sight ! What other cause — 
None, none ! She must go hence ! Choose from 

thy band 
The bravest, Sadi ! and the longest tried, 

And I will send my child ■ 

Voice without. Where is your chief? 

De Chatillon enters, guarded by Arab and 
Turkish soldiers. 

Arab Chief. The sons of Kedar's tribe have 
brought to the son 
Of the Prophet's house a prisoner ! 

Mel. (half drawing his sword.) Chatillon ! 
That slew my boy ! Thanks for the avenger's hour! 
Sadi, their guerdon — give it them — the gold ! 
And me the vengeance ! 

(Looking at Rainier, who holds the upper frag- 
ment of his sword, and seems lost in thought.) 

This is he 
That slew my first-born ! 

Rai. (to himself.) Surely there leap'd up 

have been the song of Chivalry, representative of the English ; 
as the Flowers of the Forest was of the Scottish ; the Can- 
cionella Espahola of the Spanish ; and the Rhine Song of the 
Germans." — Biographical Sketch oy Delta, 1836. 

Of all Mrs Hemans's lyrics set to music, • The Captive 
Knight ' has been the most popular, and deservedly so. It 
has indeed stirred many a heart " like the sound of a trum- 
pet." — Chorley's Memorials. 



314 



DE CHATILLON; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



A brother's heart within him ! Yes, he struck 
To the earth a Paynim 

Mel. (raising Ms voice) Christian ! thou hast been 
Our nation's deadliest foe ! [hear 

Rai. {looking up and smiling proudly.) 'Tisjoyto 
I have not lived in vain ! 

Mel. Thou bear'st thyself [me? 

With a conqueror's mien ! What is thy hope from 

Rai. A soldier's death. 

Mel. (hastily.) Then thou wouldst fear a slave's 1 

Rai. Fear! As if man's own spirit had not power 
To make his death a triumph ! Waste not words ; 
Let my blood bathe thine own sword. Infidel ! 
I slew thy son ! [Looking at his broken sword. 

Ay, there's the red mark here ! 

Mel. (approaching him.) Thou darest to tell me 
this! [A tumult heard without. 

Voices tvithout. A Chatillon ! 

Rai. My brother's voice ! He is saved ! 

Mel. (calling.) What, ho ! my guards ! 

Aymer enters with the knights, fighting their 

way through Melech's soldiers, who are 

driven before them. 

Aym. On with the war-cry of our ancient house : 
For the Cross — De Chatillon ! 

Knights. For the Cross — De Chatillon ! 

[Rainier attempts to break from his guards. 
Sadi enters with more soldiers to the assist- 
ance of Melech. Aymer and the knights 
are overpowered. Aymer is wounded and 
falls. 

Mel. Bring fetters — bind the captives ! 

Rai. Lost — all lost ! 
jSTo ! he is saved ! 

(Breaking from his guards, he goes up to Aymer.) 
Brother, my brother ! hast thou pardon'd me 
That which I did to save thee ] Speak ! forgive ! 

Aym. (turning from him) 
Thou see'st I die for thee ! She is avenged ! 

Rai. I am no murderer ! Hear me ! turn to me! 
We are parting by the grave ! 

Moraima enters veiled, and goes up to Melech. 

Mor. Father ! Oh ! look not sternly on thy child. 
I came to plead. They said thou hast condemn'd 

A Christian knight to die 

Mel. Hence — to thy tent ! 
Away — begone ! [spirit come 

Aym. (attempting to rise) Moraima ! hath her 
To make death beautiful 1 Moraima ! speak. 
Mor. It was his voice ! Aymer ! 

[She rushes to him, throwing aside her veil. 



Aym. Thou liv'st — thou liv'st ! 
I knew thou couldst not die ! Look on me still. 
Thou livest ! and makest this world so full of joy — ■ 
But I depart ! 

Mel. (approaching her) Moraima ! hence ! Is this 
A place for thee 1 

Mor. Away ! away ! 
There is no place but this for me on earth ! 
Where should I go ] There is no place but this ! 
My soul is bound to it ! 

Mel. (to the guards.) Back, slaves ! and look not 
on her ! [They retreat to the background. 
'Twas for this 
She droop'd to the earth. 

Aym. Moraima, fare thee well ! 
Think on me ! I have loved thee ! I take hence 
That deep love with my soul ! for well I know 
It must be deathless ! 

Mor. Oh ! thou hast not known 
What ivomans love is ! Aymer, Aymer, stay ! 
If I could die for thee ! My heart is grown 
So strong in its despair ! 

Rai. (turning from them) And all the past [hers/ 
Forgotten ! — our young days ! His last thoughts 
The Infidel's ! 
Aym. (with a violent effort turning his head round) 
Thou art no murderer ! Peace 
Between us — peace, my brother ! In our deaths 
We shall be join'd once more ! 

Rai (holding the cross of the sword before him) 
Look yet on this ! 

Aym. If thou hadst only told me that she lived ! 
— But our hearts meet at last ! 

[Presses the cross to his lips. 
Moraima ! save my brother ! Look on me ! 
Joy — there is joy in death ! 

[Re dies on Rainier's arm. 

Mor. Speak — speak once more ! 
Aymer ! how is it that I call on thee, 
And that thou answer'st not 1 Have we not loved 1 
Death ! death ! — and this is — death ! 

Rai. So thou art gone, 
Aymer ! I never thought to weep again — 
But now — farewell ! Thou wert the bravest 

knight 
That e'er laid lance in rest — and thou didst wear 
The noblest form that ever woman's eye 
Dwelt on with love ; and till that fatal dream 
Came o'er thee ! Aymer ! Aymer ! thou wert still 
The most true-hearted brother ! There thou art 
Whose breast was once my shield ! I never 

thought 
That foes should see me weep ! but there thou art, 
Aymer, my brother ! 



DE CHATILLON"; OR, THE CRUSADERS. 



315 



Mor. {suddenly rising.) With his last, last breath 
He bade me save his brother ! 

(Falling at Melech's feet.) Father, spare 
The Christian — spare him ! 

Mel. For thy sake spare him 
That slew thy father's son ! — Shame to thy race ! 

(To the soldiers in the background.) 
Soldiers ! come nearer with your levell'd spears ! 
Yet nearer ! — gird him in ! My boy's young blood 
Is on his sword. Christian, abjure thy faith, 
Or die : thine hour is come ! 

Rai. (turning and throwing himself on the weapons 

ANNOTATION ON " DE CHATILLON." 

["The merits of ' The Siege of Valencia' are more of a de- 
scriptive than of a strictly dramatic kind ; and abounding as 
it does with fine passages of narrative beauty, and with strik- 
ing scenes and situations, it is not only not adapted for 
representation, but, on the contrary, the characters are de- 
veloped by painting much more than by incident. Withal, 
it wants unity and entireness, and in several places is not 
rhetorical but diffuse. 

" From the previous writings of the same author, and 
until the appearance of ' The Vespers of Palermo,' it seemed to 
be the prevalent opinion of critics, that the genius of Mrs 
Hemans was not of a dramatic cast — that it expatiated too 
much in the development of sentiment, too much in the 
luxuriancy of description, to be ever brought under the tram- 
mels essentially necessary for the success of scenic dialogue. 

" The merits of ' The Vespers ' are great, and have been ac- 
knowledged to be so, not only by the highest of contemporary 
literary authorities, but by the still more unequivocal testi- 
mony of theatrical applause. What 'has been, has been,' 
and we wish not to detract one iota from praise so fairly 
earned ; but we must candidly confess, that before the perusal 
of ' De Chatillon ,' (although that poem is probably not quite in 
the state in which it would have been submitted to the world 
by its writer,) we were somewhat infected with the prevailing 
opinion, that the most successful path of Mrs Hemans did not 
lead her towards the drama. Our opinion on this subject is, 
however, now much altered ; and we hesitate not to say, after 



of the soldiers.) Thou hast mine answer, 
Infidel ! 

[Calling aloud to the lenights as he falls back. 
Knights of France ! 
Herman ! De Foix ! Du Mornay ! be ye strong ! 

Your hour will come ! 

Must the old war-cry cease 1 
[Half raising himself, and waving the cross 
triumphantly. 
For the Cross — De Chatillon ! 

[He dies. 
(Tlie curtain falls.) 

minutely considering the characters of Rainier — so skilfully 
acted on, now by fraternal love, and now by public duty — 
and of Aymer and Moraima, placed in situations where incli- 
nation is opposed to principle — that, by the cultivation of this 
species of composition, had health and prolonged years been 
the fate of the author of ' De Chatillon,' that tragedy, noble as 
it is, which must now be placed at the head of her dramatic 
efforts, would in all probability have been even surpassed in 
excellence by ulterior efforts. 

" Mrs Hemans had at length struck the proper keys. It 
is quite evident that she had succeeded in imbibing new and 
more severe ideas of this class of compositions. She had 
passed from the narrative into what has been conventionally 
termed the dramatic poem — from the ' Historic Scenes ' to 
' Sebastian ' and ' The Siege of Valencia ; ' but ' The Vespers 
of Palermo' and ' De Chatillon' can alone be said to be her 
legitimate dramas. 

" The last, however, must be ranked first, by many degrees 
of comparison. Without stripping her language of that rich- 
ness and poetic beauty so characteristic of her genius, or 
condescending in a single passage to the mean baldness, so 
commonly mistaken by many modern writers for the stage as 
essentially necessary to the truth of dialogue, she has, in this 
attempt, preserved adherence to reality amid scenes allied 
with romance — brevity and effect, in situations strongly allur- 
ing to amplification ; and, in her delineation of some of the 
strongest, as well as the finest emotions of the heart, there is 
exhibited a knowledge of nature's workings, at once minute, 
faithful, and affecting."— MS. Critique by A.] 



316 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



" Long time against oppression have I fought, 
And for the native liberty of faith 
Have bled and suffer'd bonds." 



Remorse; a Tragedy. 



[The following poem is intended to describe the mental conflicts, as well as outward sufferings, of a Spaniard, who, flying 
from the religious persecutions of his own country, in the sixteenth century, takes refuge, with his child, in a North American 
forest. The story is supposed to be related by himself, amidst the wilderness which has afforded him an asylum.] 



The voices of my home ! — I hear them still ! 
They have been with me through the dreamy 

night — 
The blessed household voices, wont to fill 
My heart's clear depths with unalloy'd delight ! 
I hear them still, unchanged : though some from 

earth 
Are music parted, and the tones of mirth — 
Wild, silvery tones, that rang through days more 

bright- 
Have died in others ; yet to me they come 
Singing of boyhood back — the voices of my home ! 



They call me through this hush of woods reposing 
In the gray stillness of the summer morn ; 
They wander by when heavy flowers are closing, 
And thoughts grow deep, and winds and stars are 

born. 
Even as a fount's remember'd gushings burst 
On the parch'd traveller in his hour of thirst, 
E'en thus they haunt me with sweet sounds, till 

worn 
By quenchless longings, to my soul I say — ■ 
Oh ! for the dove's swift wings, that I might flee 

away, 

in. 
And find mine ark ! Yet whither 1 I must bear 
A yearning heart within me to the grave. 
I am of those o'er whom a breath of air — 
Just darkening in its course the lake's bright wave, 
And sighing through the feathery canes — hath 

power 
To call up shadows, in the silent hour, 
From the dim past, as from a wizard's cave ! 
So must it be ! These skies above me spread : 
Are they my own soft skies 1 — Ye rest not here, 

my dead ! 



Ye far amidst the southern flowers lie sleeping, 
Your graves all smiling in the sunshine clear ; 
Save one ! a blue, lone, distant main is sweeping 
High o'er one gentle head. Ye rest not here ! — 



'Tis not the olive, with a whisper swaying, 
Not thy low ripplings, glassy water, playing [ear; 
Through my own chestnut groves which fill mine 
But the faint echoes in my breast that dwell, 
And for their birthplace moan, as moans the 
ocean-shell. 



Peace ! — I will dash these fond regrets to earth, 
Even as an eagle shakes the cumbering rain 
From his strong pinion. Thou that gavest me birth, 
And lineage, and once home, — my native Spain ! 
My own bright land — my fathers' land — my child's ! 
What hath thy son brought from thee to the wilds ? 
He hath brought marks of torture and the chain — 
Traces of things which pass not as a breeze ; 
A blighted name, dark thoughts, wrath, woe — thy 
gifts are these ! 



A blighted name ! I hear the winds of morn — 
Their sounds are not of this ! I hear the shiver 
Of the green reeds, and all the rustlings, borne 
From the high forest, when the light leaves quiver : 
Their sounds are not of this ! — the cedars, waving, 
Lend it no tone : His wide savannahs laving, 
It is not murmur'd by the joyous river ! 
What part hath mortal name, where God alone 
Speaks to the mighty waste, and through its heart 
is known ? 



Is it not much that I may worship Him 
With naught my spirit's breathings to control, 
And feel His presence in the vast, and dim, 
And whispery woods, where dying thunders roll 
From the far cataracts 1 Shall I not rejoice 
That I have learn'd at last to know His voice 
From man's? I will rejoice ! — my soaring soul 
Now hath redeem'd her birthright of the day, 
And won, through clouds, to Him her own un- 
fetter'd way ! 



And thou, my boy ! that silent at my knee 
Dost lift to mine thy soft, dark, earnest eyes, 



THE FOEEST SANCTUARY. 



317 



Fill'd with the love of childhood, which I see 
Pure through its depths, a thing without disguise ; 
Thou that hast breathed in slumber on my breast, 
When I have check'd its throbs to give thee rest, 
Mine own ! whose young thoughts fresh before 

me rise ! 
Is it not much that I may guide thy prayer, 
And circle thy glad soul with free and healthful air? 



Why should I weep on thy bright head, my boy ? 
Within thy fathers' halls thou wilt not dwell, 
ISTor lift their banner, with a warrior's joy, 
Amidst the sons of mountain chiefs, who fell 
For Spain of old. Yet what if rolling waves 
Have borne us far from our ancestral graves ? 
Thou shalt not feel thy bursting heart rebel, 
As mine hath done ; nor bear what I have borne, 
Casting in falsehood's mould th' indignant brow 
of scorn. 



This shall not be thy lot, my blessed child ! 
I have not sorrow' d, struggled, lived in vain. 
Hear me ! magnificent and ancient wild ; 
And mighty rivers, ye that meet the main, 
As deep meets deep ; and forests, whose dim shade 
The flood's voice, and the wind's, by swells pervade ; 
Hear me ! 'Tis well to die, and not complain ; 
Yet there are hours when the charged heart must 

speak, 
E'en in the desert's ear to pour itself, or break ! 



I see an oak before me : 1 it hath been Tflung 

The crown'd one of the woods ; and might have 
Its hundred arms to heaven, still freshly green ; 
But a wild vine around the stem hath clung, 
From branch to branch close wreaths of bondage 

throwing, 
Till the proud tree, before no tempest bowing, 
Hath shrunk and died those serpent folds among. 
Alas ! alas ! what is it that I see ] 
An image of man's mind, land of my sires, with thee ! 



Yet art thou lovely ! Song is on thy hills : 

sweet and mournful melodies of Spain, 

That lull'd my boyhood, how your memory thrills 

1 " I recollect hearing a traveller, of poetical temperament, 
expressing the kind of horror which he felt on beholding, on 
the banks of the Missouri, an oak of prodigious size, which 
had been in a manner overpowered by an enormous wild- 
grape vine. The vine had clasped its huge folds round the 



The exile's heart with sudden-wakening pain ! 
Your sounds are on the rocks : — that I might hear 
Once more the music of the mountaineer ! 
And from the sunny vales the shepherd's strain 
Floats out, and fills the solitary place 
With the old tuneful names of Spain's heroic race. 



But there was silence one bright, golden day, [lone, 
Through my own pine-hung mountains. Clear, yet 
In the rich autumn light the vineyards lay, 
And from the fields the peasant's voice was gone; 
And the red grapes untrodden strew'd the ground ; 
And the free flocks, untended, roam'd around. 
Where was the pastor 1 — where the pipe's wild tone? 
Music and mirth were hush'd the hills among, 
While to the city's gates each hamlet pour'd its 
throng. 



Silence upon the mountains ! But within 
The city's gate a rush, a press, a swell 
Of multitudes, their torrent-way to win ; 
And heavy boomings of a dull deep bell, 
A dead pause following each — like that which parts 
The dash of billows, holding breathless hearts 
Fast in the hush of fear — knell after knell ; 
And sounds of thickening steps, like thunder-rain 
That plashes on the roof of some vast echoing fane ! 



What pageant's hour approach'd ? The sullen gate 
Of a strong ancient prison-house was thrown 
Back to the day. And who, in mournful state, 
Came forth, led slowly o'er its threshold-stone ? 
They that had learn'd, in cells of secret gloom, 
How sunshine is forgotten ! They to whom 
The very features of mankind were grown 
Things that bewilder'd ! O'er that dazzled sight 
They lifted their wan hands, and cower'd before 
the light ! 



To this, man brings his brother ! Some were there, 
Who, with their desolation, had entwined 
Fierce strength, and girt the sternness of despair 
Fast round their bosoms, even as warriors bind 
The breastplate on for fight ; but brow and cheek 
Seem'd theirs a torturing panoply to speak ! 

trunk, and from thence had wound about every branch and 
twig, until the mighty tree had withered in its embrace. It 
seemed like Laocoon struggling ineffectually in the hideous 
coils of the monster Python."— Bracebridge Hall. Chapter 
on Forest-Trees. 



318 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



And there were some, from whom the very mind 
Had been wrung out ; they smiled — oh, startling- 
smile, [sleep the while 1 
Whence man's high soul is fled ! Where doth it 



But onward moved the melancholy train, 
For their false creeds in fiery pangs to die. 
This was the solemn sacrifice of Spain — ■ 
Heaven's offering from the land of chivalry ! 
Through thousands, thousands of their race they 

moved — 
Oh, how unlike all others ! — the beloved, 
The free, the proud, the beautiful ! whose eye 
Grew fix'd before them, while a people's breath 
Was hush'd, and its one soul bound in the thought 

of death ! 



It might be that, amidst the countless throng, 
There swell'd some heart with pity's weight op- 

press'd : 
For the wide stream of human love is strong ; 
And woman, on whose fond and faithful breast 
Childhood is rear'd, and at whose knee the sigh 
Of its first prayer is breathed — she, too, was nigh. 
But life is dear, and the free footstep bless'd, 
And home a sunny place, where each may fill 
Some eye with glistening smiles, — and therefore 

all were still. 



All still, — youth, courage, strength ! — a winter 

laid, 
A chain of palsy cast, on might and mind ! 
Still, as at noon a southern forest's shade, 
They stood, those breathless masses of mankind, 
Still, as a frozen torrent ! But the wave 
Soon leaps to foaming freedom ; they, the brave, 
Endured — they saw the martyr's place assign'd 
In the red flames — whence is the withering spell 
That numbs each human pulse 1 They saw, and 

thought it well. 



And I, too, thought it well ! That very morn 
From a far land I came, yet round me clung 
The spirit of my own. ISTo hand had torn 
With a strong grasp away the veil which hung 
Between mine eyes and truth. I gazed, I saw 
Dimly, as through a glass. In silent awe 
I watch'd the fearful rites ; and if there sprung 
One rebel feeling from its deep founts up, [cup. 
Shuddering, I flung it back, as guilt's own poison- 



But I was waken'd as the dreamers waken, 
Whom the shrill trumpet and the shriek of dread 
Rouse up at midnight, when their walls are taken, 
And they must battle till their blood is shed 
On their own threshold floor. A path for light 
Through my torn breast was shatter'd by the 

might 
Of the swift thunder-stroke ; and freedom's tread 
Came in through ruins, late, yet not in vain, 
Making the blighted place all green with life again. 



Still darkly, slowly, as a sullen mass 
Of cloud o'ersweeping, without wind, the sky, 
Dream-like I saw the sad procession pass, 
And mark'd its victims with a tearless eye. 
They moved before me but as pictures, wrought 
Each to reveal some secret of man's thought, 
On the sharp edge of sad mortality ; 
Till in his place came one — oh ! could it be 1 
My friend, my heart's first friend ! — and did I gaze 
on thee ! 



On thee ! with whom in boyhood I had play'd, 
At the grape-gatherings, by my native streams ; 
And to whose eye my youthful soul had laid 
Bare, as to heaven's, its glowing world of dreams; 
And by whose side midst warriors I had stood, 
And in whose helm was brought — oh, earn'd with 

blood !— 
The fresh wave to my lips, when tropic beams 
Smote on my fever'd brow ! Ay, years had 

pass'd, 
Severing our paths, brave friend ! — and thus we 

met at last ! 

XXIV. 

I see it still — the lofty mien thou borest ! 
On thy pale forehead sat a sense of power — 
The very look that once thou brightly worest, 
Cheering me onward through a fearful hour, 
When we were girt by Indian bow and spear, 
Midst the white Andes — even as mountain deer, 
Hemm'd in our camp ; but through the javelin 

shower 
We rent our way, a tempest of despair ! 
And thou — hadst thou but died with thy true 
brethren there ! 



I call the fond wish back — for thou hast perish'd 
More nobly far, my Alvar ! — making known 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



319 



The might of truth; 1 and be thy memory cherish'd 
With theirs, the thousands that around her throne 
Have pour'd their lives out smiling, in that doom 
Finding a triumph, if denied a tomb ! 
Ay, with their ashes hath the wind been sown, 
And with the wind their spirit shall be spread, 
Filling man's heart and home with records of the 
dead. 



Thou Searcher of the soul ! in whose dread sight 
Not the bold guilt alone that mocks the skies, 
But the scarce-own'd unwhisper'd thought of night, 
Asa thing written with the sunbeam lies ; 
Thou know'st — whose eye through shade and depth 

can see, 
That this man's crime was but to worship thee, 
Like those that made their hearts thy sacrifice, 
The call'd of yore — wont by the Saviour's side 
On the dim Olive Mount to pray at eventide. 

XXVII. 

For the strong spirit will at times awake, 
Piercing the mists that wrap her clay abode ; 
And, born of thee, she may not always take 
Earth's accents for the oracles of God ; 
And even for this — dust, whose mask is power ! 
Reed, that wouldst be a scourge thy little hour ! 
Spark, whereon yet the mighty hath not trod, 
And therefore thou destroy est ! — where were 

flown 
Our hopes, if man were left to man's decree alone ! 

XXVIII. 

But this I felt not yet. I could but gaze 
On him, my friend; while that swift moment threw 
A sudden freshness back on vanish'd days, 
Like water-drops on some dim picture's hue ; 
Calling the proud time up, when first I stood 
Where banners floated, and my heart's quick blood 
Sprang to a torrent as the clarion blew, 
And he — his sword was like a brother's worn, 
That watches through the field his mother's 
youngest born. 



1 For a most interesting account of the Spanish Protes- 
tants, and the heroic devotion with which they met the spirit 
of persecution in the sixteenth century, see the Quarterly 
Review, No. 57, Art. " Quin's Visit to Spain." 

2 " A priest named Gonzalez had, among other prose- 
lytes, gained over two young females, his sisters, to the Pro- 
testant faith. All three were confined in the dungeons of 
the Inquisition. The torture, repeatedly applied, could not 
draw from them the least evidence against their religious 
associates. Every artifice was employed to obtain a recan- 



But a lance met me in that day's career — 
Senseless I lay amidst the o'ersweeping fight ; 
Wakening at last, how full, how strangely clear, 
That scene on memory fiash'd ! — the shivery light, 
Moonlight, on broken shields — the plain of 

slaughter, 
The fountain-side, the low sweet sound of water — 
And Alvar bending o'er me — from the night 
Covering me with his mantle. All the past 
Flow'd back ; my soul's far chords all answer'd to 

the blast. 



Till, in that rush of visions, I became 

As one that, by the bands of slumber wound, 

Lies with a powerless but all-thrilling frame, 

Intense in consciousness of sight and sound, 

Yet buried in a wildering dream which brings 

Loved faces round him, girt with fearful things ! 

Troubled even thus I stood, but chain'd and bound 

On that familiar form mine eye to keep : 

Alas ! I might not fall upon his neck and weep ! 

XXXI. 

He pass'd me — and what next ? I look'd on two, 
Following his footsteps to the same dread place, 
For the same guilt — his sisters ! 2 Well I knew 
The beauty on those brows, though each young 

face [air 

Was changed — so deeply changed ! — a dungeon's 
Is hard for loved and lovely things to bear. 
And ye, daughters of a lofty race, 
Queen-like Theresa ! radiant Inez ! — flowers 
So cherish'd ! were ye then but rear'd for those 

dark hours 1 

XXXII. 

A mournful home, young sisters, had ye left ! 
With your lutes hanging hush'd upon the wall, 
And silence round the aged man, bereft 
Of each glad voice once answering to his call. 
Alas, that lonely father ! doom'd to pine 
For sounds departed in his life's decline ; 



tation from the two sisters, since the constancy and learning 
of Gonzalez precluded all hopes of a theological victory. 
Their answer, if not exactly logical, is wonderfully simple 
and affecting : — ' We will die in the faith of our brother : he 
is too wise to be wrong, and too good to deceive us." The 
three stakes on which they died were near each other. The 
priest had been gagged till the moment of lighting up the 
wood. The few minutes that he was allowed to speak he 
employed in comforting his sisters, with whom he sung the 
109th Psalm, till the flames smothered their voices." — Ibid. 



320 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



And, midst the shadowing banners of his hall, 
With his white hair to sit, and deem the name 
A hundred chiefs had borne, cast down by you to 
shame I 1 

XXXIII. 

And woe for you, midst looks and words of love, 
And gentle hearts and faces, nursed so long ! 
How had I seen you in your beauty move, 
Wearing the wreath, and listening to the song! — 
Yet sat, even then, what seem'd the crowd to shun, 
Half-veil'd upon the pale clear brow of one, 
And deeper thoughts than oft to youth belong — 
Thoughts, such as wake to evening's whispery sway, 
Within the drooping shade of her sweet eyelids lay. 

xxxiv. 
And if she mingled with the festive train, 
It was but as some melancholy star 
Beholds the dance of shepherds on the plain, 
In its bright stillness present, though afar. 
Yet would she smile —and that, too, hath its smile — 
Circled with joy which reach'd her not the while, 
And bearing a lone spirit, not at war 
With earthly things, but o'er their form and hue 
Shedding too clear a light, too sorrowfully true. 

xxxv. 
But the dark hours wring forth the hidden might 
Which hath lain bedded in the silent soul, 
A treasure all undreamt of, — as the night 
Calls out the harmonies of streams that roll 
Unheard by day. It seem'd as if her breast 
Had hoarded energies, till then suppress'd 
Almost with pain, and bursting from control, 
And finding first that hour their pathway free : 
Could a rose brave the storm, such might her 
emblem be ! 

xxxvi. 
For the soft gloom whose shadow still had hung 
On her fair brow, beneath its garlands worn, 
Was fled; and fire, like prophecy's, had sprung 
Clear to her kindled eye. It might be scorn — 
Pride — sense of wrong; ay, the frail heart is bound 
By these at times, even as with adamant round, 
Kept so from breaking ! Yet not thus upborne 
She moved, though some sustaining passion's wave 
Lifted her fervent soul — a sister for the brave ! 

1 The names, not only of the immediate victims of the 
Inquisition were devoted to infamy, but those of all their 
relations were branded with the same indelible stain, which 
was likewise to descend as an inheritance to their latest 
posterity. 



XXXVII. 
And yet, alas ! to see the strength which clings 
Round woman in such hours ! — a mournful sight, 
Though lovely ! — an o'erflowing of the springs, 
The full springs of affection, deep as bright ! 
And she, because her life is ever twined 
With other lives, and by no stormy wind 
May thence be shaken, and because the light 
Of tenderness is round her, and her eye 
Doth weep such passionate tears — therefore she 
thus can die. 

XXXVIII. 

Therefore didst thou, through that heart-shaking 

scene, 
As through a triumph move ; and cast aside 
Thine own sweet thoughtfulness for victory's mien, 
faithful sister ! cheering thus the guide, 
And friend, and brother of thy sainted youth, 
Whose hand had led thee to the source of truth, 
Where thy glad soul from earth was purified; 
Nor wouldst thou, following him through all the 

past, 
That he should see thy step grow tremulous at last. 

XXXIX. 

For thou hadst made no deeper love a guest, 
Midst thy young spirit's dreams, than that which 

grows 
Between the nurtured of the same fond breast, 
The shelter'd of one roof; and thus it rose 
Twined in with life. How is it that the hours 
Of the same sport, the gathering early flowers 
Round the same tree, the sharing one repose, 
And mingling one first prayer in murmurs soft, 
From the heart's memory fade in this world's 

breath so oft? 



But thee that breath hath touch'd not ; thee, nor 

him, 
The true in all things found ! — and thou wert blest 
Even then, that no remember'd change could dim 
The perfect image of affection, press'd 
Like armour to thy bosom ! Thou hadst kept 
Watch by thy brother's couch of pain, and wept, 
Thy sweet face covering with thy robe, when rest 
Fled from the sufferer; thou hadst bound his faith 
Unto thy soul ; one light, one hope ye chose — 

one death. 



So didst thou pass on brightly ! — but for her, 
Next in that path, how may her doom be spoken ! 



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All Merciful ! to think that such things were, 
And are, and seen by men with hearts unbroken! 
To think of that fair girl, whose path had been 
So strew'd with rose-leaves, all one fairy scene ! 
And whose quick glance came ever as a token 
Of hope to drooping thought, and her glad voice 
As a free bird's in spring, that makes the woods 
rejoice ! 



And she to die ! — she loved the laughing earth 
With such deep joy in its fresh leaves and flowers ! 
Was not her smile even as the sudden birth 
Of a young rainbow, colouring vernal showers 1 
Yes ! but to meet her fawn-like step, to hear 
The gushes of wild song, so silvery clear, 
Which oft, unconsciously, in happier hours 
Flow'd from her lips, was to forget the sway 
Of Time and Death below, blight, shadow, dull 
decay ! 



Could this change be ? The hour, the scene, where 

last 
I saw that form, came floating o'er my mind : 
A golden vintage-eve ; the heats were pass'd, 
And, in the freshness of the fanning wind, 
Her father sat where gleam' d the first faint star 
Through the lime-boughs; and with her light guitar, 
She, on the greensward at his feet reclined, 
In his calm face laugh'd up ; some shepherd lay 
Singing, as childhood sings on the lone hills at play. 



And now — oh, God ! — the bitter fear of death, 
The sore amaze, the faint o'ershadowing dread, 
Had grasp'd her ! — panting in her quick-drawn 

breath, 
And in her white lips quivering. Onward led, 
She look'd up with her dim bewilder'd eyes, 
And there smiled out her own soft brilliant skies, 
Far in their sultry southern azure spread, 
Glowing with joy, but silent ! — still they smiled, 
Yet sent down no reprieve for earth's poor trem- 
bling child. 

XLV. 

Alas ! that earth had all too strong a hold, 
Too fast, sweet Inez ! on thy heart, whose bloom 
Was given to early love, nor knew how cold 
The hours which follow. There was one, with whom, 
Young as thou wert, and gentle, and untried, 
Thou mightst, perchance, unshrinkingly have died: 
But he was far away ; and with thy doom 



Thus gathering, life grew so intensely dear, 
That all thy slight frame shook with its cold 
mortal fear ! 

XLVI. 

No aid ! — thou too didst pass ! — and all had pass'd, 
The fearful — and the desperate — and the strong ! 
Some like the bark that rushes with the blast, 
Some like the leaf swept shiveringly along ; 
And some as men that have but one more field 
To fight, and then may slumber on their shield, — 
Therefore they arm in hope. But now the throng 
Roll'd on, and bore me with their living tide, 
Even as a bark wherein is left no power to guide. 

XLVH. 

Wave swept on wave. We reach'd a stately square, 
Deck'd for the rites. An altar stood on high, 
And gorgeous, in the midst : a place for prayer, 
And praise, and offering. Could the earth supply 
No fruits, no flowers for sacrifice, of all 
Which on her sunny lap unheeded fall 1 
No fair young firstling of the flock to die, 
As when before their God the patriarchs stood 1 ? — 
Look down! man brings thee, heaven! his brother's 
guiltless blood ! 

XL VIII. 

Hear its voice, hear ! — a cry goes up to thee, 
From the stain'd sod ; make thou thy judgment 

known 
On him the shedder ! — let his portion be 
The fear that walks at midnight — give the moan 
In the wind haunting him, a power to say, 
"Where is thy brother 1 ?" — and the stars a ray 
To search and shake his spirit, when alone 
With the dread splendour of their burning eyes ! 
So shall earth own thy will — Mercy, not sacrifice ! 



Sounds of triumphant praise ! the mass was sung — 
Voices that die not might have pour'd such strains ! 
Through Salem's towers might that proud chant 

have rung 
When the Most High, on Syria's palmy plains, , 
Had quell'd her foes ! — so full it swept, a sea 
Of loud waves jubilant, and rolling free ! 
— Oft when the wind, as through resounding fanes, 
HathfiU'dthe choralforestswithitspower, [hour. 
Some deep tone brings me back the music of that 



It died away ; — the incense-cloud was driven 
Before the breeze — the words of doom were said : 



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And the sun faded, mournfully from heaven : 
He faded mournfully, and dimly red, 
Parting in clouds from those that look'd their last, 
And sigh'd — " Farewell, thou sun ! " Eve glow'd 

and pass'd ; [shed 

Night — midnight and the moon — came forth and 
Sleep, even as dew, on glen, wood, peopled spot — 
Save one — a place of death — and there men slum- 

ber'd not. 



'Twas not within the city — 1 but in sight 
Of the snow-crown'd sierras, freely sweeping, 
With many an eagle's eyrie on the height, 
And hunter's cabin, by the torrent peeping 
Far off : and vales between, and vineyards lay, 
With sound and gleam of waters on their way, 
And chestnut woods, that girt the happy sleeping 
In many a peasant home ! — the midnight sky 
Brought softly that rich world round those who 
came to die. 



The darkly glorious midnight sky of Spain, 

Burning with stars ! What had the torches' glare 

To do beneath that temple, and profane 

Its holy radiance ] By their wavering flare, 

I saw beside the pyres — I see thee now, 

bright Theresa ! with thy lifted brow, 

And thy clasp'd hands, and dark eyes fill'd with 

prayer ! 
And thee, sad Inez ! bowing thy fair head, 
And mantling up thy face, all colourless with dread! 



And Alvar, Alvar ! — I beheld thee too, 
Pale, steadfast, kingly : till thy clear glance fell 
On that young sister ; then perturb'd it grew, 
And all thy labouring bosom seem'd to swell 
With painful tenderness. Why came I there, 
That troubled image of my friend to bear 
Thence, for my after-years 1 — a thing to dwell 
In my heart's core, and on the darkness rise, 
Disquieting my dreams with its bright mournful 
eyes % 

LIV. 

Why came II — oh ! the heart's deep mystery !— 

Why 
In man's last hour doth vain affection's gaze 
Fix itself down on struggling agony, 
To the dimm'd eyeballs freezing as they glaze ? 

1 The piles erected for these executions were without the 
towns, and the final scene of an Auto da Fe was sometimes, 



It might be — yet the power to will seem'd o'er — 
That my soul yearn'd to hear his voice once more ! 
But mine was fetter'd ! — mute in strong amaze, 
I watch'd his features as the night-wind blew, 
And torch-light or the moon's pass'd o'er their 
marble hue. 

LV. 

The trampling of a steed ! A tall white steed, 
Rending his fiery way the crowds among — 
A storm's way through a forest — came at speed, 
And a wild voice cried " Inez ! " Swift she flung 
The mantle from her face, and gazed around, 
With a faint shriek at that familiar sound; 
And from his seat a breathless rider sprung, 
And dash'd off fiercely those who came to part, 
And rush'd to that pale girl, and clasp'd her to 
his heart. 

LVI. 

And for a moment all around gave way 
To that full burst of passion ! On his breast, 
Like a bird panting yet from fear, she lay, 
But blest — in misery's very lap — yet blest ! 
love, love, strong as death ! — from such an hour 
Pressing out joy by thine immortal power; 
Holy and fervent love ! had earth but rest 
For thee and thine, this world were all too fair ! 
How could we thence be wean'd to die without 
despair 1 ? 



But she — as falls a willow from the storm, 
O'er its own river streaming — thus reclined 
On the youth's bosom hung her fragile form, 
And clasping arms, so passionately twined 
Around his neck — with such a trusting fold, 
A full deep sense of safety in their hold, 
As if naught earthly might th' embrace unbind ! 
Alas ! a child's fond faith, believing still [kill ! 
Its mother's breast beyond the lightning's reach to 



Brief rest ! upon the turning billow's height 
A strange sweet moment of some heavenly strain, 
Floating between the savage gusts of night, 
That sweep the seas to foam ! Soon dark again 
The hour — the scene ; th' intensely present rush'd 
Back on her spirit, and her large tears gush'd 
Like blood-drops from a victim — with swift rain 
Bathing the bosom where she lean'd that hour, 
As if her life would melt into th' o'erswelling shower. 

from the length of the preceding ceremonies, delayed till 
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323 



But he whose arm sustain'd her ! — oh, I knew 
'Twas vain ! — and yet he hoped — he fondly strove 
Back from her faith her sinking soul to woo, 
As life might yet be hers ! A dream of love 
"Which could not look upon so fair a thing, 
Remembering how like hope, like joy, like spring, 
Her smile was wont to glance, her step to move, 
And deem that men indeed, in very truth, 
Could mean the sting of death for her soft flower- 
ing youth ! 



He woo'd her back to life. " Sweet Inez, live ! 
My blessed Inez ! — visions have beguiled 
Thy heart; abjure them ! thou wert form'd to give 
And to find joy; and hath not sunshine smiled 
Around thee ever 1 Leave me not, mine own ! 
Or earth will grow too dark ! — for thee alone, 
Thee have I loved, thou gentlest ! from a child, 
And borne thine image with me o'er the sea, 
Thy soft voice in my soul. Speak ! Oh ! yet live 
for me ! " 



She look'd up wildly ; there were anxious eyes 
Waiting that look— sad eyes of troubled thought, 
Alvar's — Theresa's ! Did her childhood rise, 
With all its pure and home-afiections fraught, 
In the brief glance? She clasp'd her hands — the strife 
Of love, faith, fear, and that vain dream of life, 
Within her woman's breast so deeply wrought, 
It seem'd as if a reed so slight and weak [break ! 
Must, in the rending storm not quiver only — 

LXII. 

And thus it was. The young cheek flush'd and faded, 
As the swift blood in currents came and went, 
And hues of death the marble brow o'ershaded, 
And the sunk eye a watery lustre sent [pass'd 
Through its white fluttering lids. Then tremblings 
O'er the frail form, that shook it as the blast 
Shakes the sere leaf, until the spirit rent 
Its way to peace — the fearful way unknown. 
Pale in love's arms she lay— she /—what had loved 
was gone ! 



Joy for thee, trembler ! — thou redeem'd one, joy ! 
Young dove set free ! — earth, ashes, soulless clay, 
Remain'd for baffled vengeance to destroy. 
Thy chain was riven ! Nor hadst thou cast away 
Thy hope in thy last hour ! — though love was there 
Striving to wring thy troubled soul from prayer, 



And hfe seem'd robed in beautiful array, 
Too fair to leave ! — but this might be forgiven, 
Thou wert so richly crown'd with precious gifts 
of heaven ! 



But woe for him who felt the heart grow still, 
Which, with its weight of agony, had lain 
Breaking on his ! Scarce could the mortal chill 
Of the hush'd bosom, ne'er to heave again, 
And all the silence curdling round the eye, 
Bring home the stern belief that she could die — 
That she indeed could die ! — for, wild and vain 
As hope might be, his soul had hoped : 'twas 
o'er — [bore. 

Slowly his failing arms dropp'd from the form they 

LXV. 

They forced him from that spot. It might be well, 
That the fierce reckless words by anguish wrung 
From his torn breast, all aimless as they fell, 
Like spray-drops from the strife of torrents flung, 
Were mark'd as guilt. There are who note these 

things 
Against the smitten heart; its breaking strings 
— On whose low thrills once gentle music hung — 
With a rude hand of touch unholy trying, 
And numbering then as crimes, the deep, strange 

tones replying. 



But ye in solemn joy, faithful pair ! 

Stood gazing on your parted sister's dust ; 

I saw your features by the torch's glare, 

And they were brightening with a heavenward 

trust ! 
I saw the doubt, the anguish, the dismay, 
Melt from my Alvar's glorious mien away ; 
And peace was there — the calmness of the just ! 
And, bending down the slumb'rer's brow to kiss, 
" Thy rest is won," he said, " sweet sister ! Praise 

for this ! " 

LXVH. 

I started as from sleep; — yes ! — he had spoken — 
A breeze had troubled memory's hidden source ! 
At once the torpor of my soul was broken — 
Thought, feeling, passion, woke in tenfold force. 
There are soft breathings in the southern wind, 
That so your ice-chains, ye streams ! unbind, 
And free the foaming swiftness of your course ! 
I burst from those that held me back, and fell 
Even on his neck, and cried — " Friend ! brother ! 
fare thee we>l !" 



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LXVIII. 

Did he not say " Farewell V Alas ! no breath 
Came to mine ear. Hoarse murmurs from the throng 
Told that the mysteries in the face of death 
Had from their eager sight been veil'd too long. 
And we were parted as the surge might part 
Those that would die together, true of heart. 
His hour was come — but in mine anguish strong, 
Like a fierce swimmer through the midnight sea, 
Blindly I rush'd away from that which was to be. 



Away— away I rush'd ; but swift and high 
The arrowy pillars of the firelight grew, 
Till the transparent darkness of the sky 
Flush'd to a blood-red mantle in their hue ; 
And, phantom-like, the kindling city seem'd 
To spread, float, wave, as on the wind they stream'd, 
With their wild splendour chasing me ! I knew 
The death-work was begun — I veil'd mine eyes, 
Yet stopp'd in spell-bound fear to catch the vic- 
tims' cries. 

LXX. 

What heard I then 1 — a ringing shriek of pain, 
Such as for ever haunts the tortured ear 1 
I heard a sweet and solemn-breathing strain 
Piercing the flame, untremulous and clear ! 
The rich, triumphal tones ! — I knew them well, 
As they came floating with a breezy swell ! 
Man's voice was there — a clarion-voice to cheer 
In the mid-battle — ay, to turn the flying ; 
Woman's — that might have sung of heaven beside 
the dying ! 

LXXI. 

It was a fearful, yet a glorious thing 
To hear that hymn of martyrdom, and know 
That its glad stream of melody could spring 
Up from th' unsounded gulfs of human woe ! 
Alvar ! Theresa ! — what is deep 1 what strong ? 
—God's breath within the soul ! It fill'd that song 
From your victorious voices ! But the glow 
On the hot air and lurid skies increased : 
Faint grew the sounds— more faint: I listen'd— 
they had ceased ! 

LXXII. 

And thou indeed hadst perish'd, my soul's friend! 
I might form other ties— but thou alone 
Couldst with a glance the veil of dimness rend, 
By other years o'er boyhood's memory thrown ! 

1 For one of the most powerful and impressive pictures 
perhaps ever drawn, of a young mind struggling against habit 



Others might aid me onward : thou and I 
Had mingled the fresh thoughts that early die, 
Once flowering — never more ! And thou wert gone ! 
Who could give back my youth, my spirit free, 
Or be in aught again what thou hadst been to me 1 

LXXIH. 

And yet I wept thee not, thou true and brave ! 
I could not weep — there gather'd round thy name 
Too deep a passion. Thou denied a grave ! 
Thou, with the blight flung on thy soldier's fame ! 
Had I not known thy heart from childhood's time ? 
Thy heart of hearts 1 — and couldst thou die for 

crime 1 
No ! had all earth decreed that death of shame, 
I would have set, against all earth's decree, 
Th' inalienable trust of my firm soul in thee ! 

LXXIV. 

There are swift hours in life — strong, rushing hours, 
That do the work of tempests in their might ! 
They shake down things that stood as rocks and 

towers 
Unto th' undoubting mind ; they pour in light 
Where it but startles — like a burst of day 
For which th' uprooting of an oak makes way ; 
They sweep the colouring mists from off our sight; 
They touch with fire thought's graven page, the roll 
Stamp'd with past years — and lo! it shrivels as a 

scroll ! 

LXXV. 

And this was of such hours ! The sudden flow 
Of my soul's tide seem'd whelming me; the glare 
Of the red flames, yet rocking to and fro, 
Scorch'd up my heart with breathless thirst for air, 
And solitude, and freedom. It had been 
Well with me then, in some vast desert scene, 
To pour my voice out, for the winds to bear 
On with them, wildly questioning the sky, 
Fiercely the untroubled stars, of man's dim destiny. 

LXXVI. 

I would have call'd, adjuring the dark cloud ; 
To the most ancient heavens I would have said — 
" Speak to me! show me truth!" 3 — through night 

aloud 
I would have cried to him, the newly dead, 
" Come back ! and show me truth ! " My spirit 

seem'd 
Gasping for some free burst, its darkness teem'd 
With such pent storms of thought ! Again I fled, 

and superstition in its first aspirations after truth, see the 
admirable Letters from Spain by Don Lewadio Doblado. 



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325 



I fled, a refuge from man's face to gain, [fane. 
Scarce conscious when I paused, entering a lonely 

LXXVII. 

A mighty minster, dim, and proud, and vast ! 
Silence was round the sleepers whom its floor 
Shut in the grave ; a shadow of the past, 
A memory of the sainted steps that wore 
Erewhile its gorgeous pavement, seem'd to brood 
Like mist upon the stately solitude ; 
A halo of sad fame to mantle o'er 
Its white sepulchral forms of mail-clad men; [glen. 
And all was hush'd as night in some deep Alpine 

LXXVIII. 

More hush'd, far more! — for there the wind 

sweeps by, 
Or the woods tremble to the streams' loud play ; 
Here a strange echo made my very sigh 
Seem for the place too much a sound of day ! 
Too much my footsteps broke the moonlight, 

fading, 
Yet arch through arch in one soft flow pervading. 
And I stood still : prayer, chant had died away ; 
Yet past me floated a funereal breath 
Of incense. I stood still — as before God and death. 

LXXIX. 

For thick ye girt me round, ye long departed ! x 
Dust — imaged forms — with cross, and shield, and 

crest ; 
It seem'd as if your ashes would have started 
Had a wild voice burst forth above your rest ! 
Yet ne'er, perchance, did worshipper of yore 
Bear to your thrilling presence what / bore 
Of wrath, doubt, anguish, battling in the breast ! 
I could have pour'd out words, on that pale air, 
To make your proud tombs ring. No, no! I could 

not there ! 



Not midst those aisles, through which a thousand 

years, 
Mutely as clouds, and reverently, had swept ; 
Not by those shrines, which yet the trace of tears 
And kneeling votaries on their marble kept ! 
Ye were too mighty in your pomp of gloom 
And trophied age, temple, altar, tomb ! 

1 " You walk from end to end over a floor of tombstones, 
inlaid in brass with the forms of the departed, mitres, and 
crosiers, and spears, and shields, and helmets, all mingled 
together— all worn into glass-like smoothness by the feet and 
the knees of long-departed worshippers. Around, on every 
side, each in their separate chapel, sleep undisturbed from age 



And you, ye dead ! — for in that faith ye slept, 
Whose weight had grown a mountain's on my heart, 
Which could not there be loosed. I turn'd me to 
depart. 

LXXXI. 

I turn'd : what glimmer' d faintly on my sight — 
Faintly, yet brightening as a wreath of snow 
Seen through dissolving haze ] The moon, the night, 
Had waned, and down pour'd in — gray, shadowy, 

slow, 
Yet dayspring still ! A solemn hue it caught, 
Piercing the storied windows, darkly fraught 
With stoles and draperies of imperial glow ; 
And, soft and sad, that colouring gleam was thrown 
Where, pale, a pictured form above the altar shone. 

LXXXII. 

Thy form, thou Son of God ! — a wrathful deep, 
With foam, and cloud, and tempest round Thee 



And such a weight of night ! — a night, when sleep 
From the fierce rocking of the billows fled. 
A bark show'd dim beyond Thee, with its mast 
Bow'd, and its rent sail shivering to the blast : 
But, like a spirit in thy gliding tread, 
Thou, as o'er glass, didst walk that stormy sea 
Through rushing winds, which left a silent path 
for Thee. 

LXXXIII. 

So still thy white robes fell ! — no breath of air 
Within their long and slumb'rous folds had sway. 
So still the waves of parted, shadowy hair 
From thy clear brow flow'd droopingly away ! 
Dark were the heavens above thee, Saviour ! — dark 
The gulfs, Deliverer ! round the straining bark ! 
But Thou ! — o'er all thine aspect and array 
Was pour'd one stream of pale, broad, silvery 
light : [night ! 

Thou wert the single star of that all-shrouding 

lxxxiv. 
Aid for one sinking ! Thy lone brightness gleam'd 
On his wild face, just lifted o'er the wave, 
With its worn, fearful, human look, that seem'd 
To cry, through surge and blast — "I perish — 



to age the venerable ashes of the holiest or the loftiest that of 
old came thither to worship— their images and their dying 
prayers sculptured among the resting-places of their remains." 
— From a beautiful description of ancient Spanish Cathedrals, 
in Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk. 



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Not to the winds — not vainly ! Thou wert nigh, 
Thy hand was stretch'd to fainting agony, 
Even in the portals of th' unquiet grave ! 
Thou that art the life ! and yet didst bear 
Too much of mortal woe to turn from mortal 



prayer 



LXXXV. 

But was it not a thing to rise on death, 
With its remember'd light, that face of thine, 
Redeemer ! dimm'd by this world's misty breath, 
Yet mournfully, mysteriously divine % 
Oh ! that calm, sorrowful, prophetic eye, 
With its dark depths of grief, love, majesty ! 
And the pale glory of the brow ! — a shrine 
Where power sat veil'd, yet shedding softly round 
What told that Thou couldst be but for a time 
uncrown'd ! 

LXXXVI. 

And, more than all, the heaven of that sad smile ! 
The lip of mercy, our immortal trust ! 
Did not that look, that very look, erewhile 
Pour its o'ershadow'd beauty on the dust 1 
Wert thou not such when earth's dark cloud hung 
o'er Thee 1— [Thee, 

Surely thou wert ! My heart grew hush'd before 
Sinking, with all its passions, as the gust 
Sank at thy voice, along its billowy way : [pray 1 
What had I there to do but kneel, and weep, and 

LXXXVII. 

Amidst the stillness rose my spirit's cry, 
Amidst the dead — " By that full cup of woe, 
Press'd from the fruitage of mortality, 
Saviour ! for Thee — give light ! that I may know 
If by thy will, in thine all-healing name, 
Men cast down human hearts to blighting shame, 
And early death ; and say, if this be so, 
Where, then, is mercy ? Whither shall we flee, 
So unallied to hope, save by our hold on Thee 1 

LXXXVIII. 

"But didst Thou not, the deep sea brightly 

treading, 
Lift from despair that straggler with the wave 1 
And wert Thou not, sad tears, yet awful, shedding, 
Beheld a weeper at a mortal's grave ? 
And is this weight of anguish, which they bind 
On life — this searing to the quick of mind, 
That but to God its own free path would crave— 
This crushing out of hope, and love, and youth, 
Thy will, indeed? Give light ! that I may know 

the truth ! 



LXXXIX. 

" For my sick soul is darken'd unto death, 
With shadows from the suffering it hath seen ; 
The strong foundations of mine ancient faith 
Sink from beneath me — whereon shall I lean 1 
Oh ! if from thy pure lips was wrung the sigh 
Of the dust's anguish ! if like man to die — 
And earth round him shuts heavily — hath been 
Even to Thee bitter, aid me ! guide me ! turn 
My wild and wandering thoughts back from their 
starless bourne ! " 



And calm'd I rose : but how the while had risen 
Morn's orient sun, dissolving mist and shade ! 
Could there indeed be wrong, or chain, or prison, 
In the bright world such radiance might pervade 1 ? 
It fill'd the fane, it mantled the pale form 
Which rose before me through the pictured storm, 
Even the gray tombs it kindled, and array'd 
With life ! — How hard to see thy race begun, 
And think man wakes to grief, wakening to thee, 
OSun! 



I sought my home again ; and thou, my child, 
There at thy play beneath yon ancient pine, 
With eyes, whose lightning laughter 1 hath beguiled 
A thousand pangs, thence flashing joy to mine ; 
Thou in thy mother's arms, a babe, didst meet 
My coming with young smiles, which yet, though 

sweet, 
Seem'd on my soul all mournfully to shine, 
And ask a happier heritage for thee, 
Than but in turn the blight of human hope to see. 



Now sport, for thou art free ! the bright birds 
chasing, [tree ; 

Whose wings waft star-like gleams from tree to 
Or with the fawn, thy swift wood-playmate, racing, 
Sport on, my joyous child ! for thou art free ! 
Yes, on that day I took thee to my heart, 
And inly vow'd, for thee a better part 
To choose; that so thy sunny bursts of glee [woe, 
Should wake no more dim thoughts of far-seen 
But, gladdening fearless eyes, flow on — as now 
they flow. 



Thou hast a rich world round thee — mighty shades 
Weaving their gorgeous tracery o'er thy head, 
With the light melting through their high arcades, 
1 El' lampegjiar de l'angelico riso." — Petrarch. 



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327 



As through a pillar'd cloister's ; 1 but the dead 
Sleep not beneath ; nor doth the sunbeam pass 
To marble shrines through rainbow-tinted glass ; 
Yet thou, by fount and forest-murmur led 
To worship, thou art blest ! to thee is shown 
Earth in her holy pomp, deck'd for her God alone. 



PART II. 

Wie diese treue liebe seele 
Ton ihrem Glauben Voll, 
Der ganz allein 

Jhr selig machend ist, sich heilig quale, 
Das sie den liebsten Mann verloren halten soil.— Faust. 

I never shall smile more— but all my days 
Walk with still footsteps and with humble eyes, 
An everlasting hymn within my soul. — Wilson. 

I. 

Bring me the sounding of the torrent- water, 
With yet a nearer swell ! Fresh breeze, awake ! 2 
And river, darkening ne'er with hues of slaughter 
Thy wave's pure silvery green, — and shining lake, 
Spread far before my cabin, with thy zone 
Of ancient woods, ye chainless things and lone ! 
Send voices through the forest aisles, and make 
Glad music round me, that my soul may dare, [air ! 
Cheer'd by such, tones, to look back on a dungeon's 



Indian hunter of the desert's race ! 

That with the spear at times, or bended bow, 

Dost cross my footsteps in thy fiery chase 

Of the swift elk or blue hill's flying roe ; 

Thou that beside the red night-fire thou heapest, 

Beneath the cedars and the star-light sleepest, 

Thou know'st not, wanderer — never may'st thou 

know ! — 
Of the dark holds wherewith man cumbers earth, 
To shut from human eyes the dancing seasons' 

mirth. 



There, fetter'd down from day, to think the while 
How bright in heaven the festal sun is glowing, 

1 " Sometimes their discourse was held in the deep shades of 
moss-grown forests, whose gloom and interlaced boughs first 
suggested that Gothic architecture beneath whose pointed 
arches, where they had studied and prayed, the parti- 
coloured windows shed a tinged light ; scenes which the gleams 
of sunshine, penetrating the deep foliage, and flickering on 
the variegated turf below, might have recalled to their 
memory."— Webster's Oration on the Landing of the Pilgrim 
Fathers in New England.— See Hodgson's Letters from North 
America, vol. ii. p. 305. 



Making earth's loneliest places, with his smile, 
Flush like the rose; and how the streams are 

flowing 
With sudden sparkles through the shadowy grass, 
And water-flowers, all trembling as they pass ; 
And how the rich, dark summer trees are bowing 
With their full foliage : this to know, and pine 
Bound unto midnight's heart, seems a stern lot— 

'twas mine ! 



Wherefore was this 1 Because my soul had drawn 
Light from the Book whose words are graved in 

light ! 
There, at its well-head, had I found the dawn, 
And day, and noon of freedom : but too bright 
It shines on that which man to man hath given, 
And call'd the truth — the very truth, from heaven! 
And therefore seeks he in his brother's sight 
To cast the mote ; and therefore strives to bind, 
With his strong chains, to earth what is not earth's 

— the mind ! 



It is a weary and a bitter task 
Back from the lip the burning word to keep, 
And to shut out heaven's air with falsehood's mask, 
And in the dark urn of the soul to heap 
Indignant feelings — making e'en of thought 
A buried treasure, which may but be sought 
When shadows are abroad — and night — and sleep. 
I might not brook it long — and thus was thrown 
Into that grave-like cell, to wither there alone. 



And I, a child of danger, whose delights 
Were on dark hills and many-sounding seas — 
I, that amidst the Cordillera heights 
Had given Castilian banners to the breeze, 
And the full circle of the rainbow seen 
There, on the snows; 3 and in my country been 
A mountain wanderer, from the Pyrenees 
To the Morena crags — how left I not 
Life, or the soul's life, quench'd on that sepulchral 
spot? 

2 The varying sounds of waterfalls are thus alluded to in 
an interesting work of Mrs Grant's. " On the opposite side 
the view was bounded by steep hills, covered with lofty pines, 
from which a waterfall descended, which not only gave ani- 
mation to the sylvan scene, but was the best barometer ima- 
ginable ; foretelling by its varied and intelligible sounds every 
approaching change, not only of the weather but of the wind." 
— Memoirs of an American Lady, vol. i. p. 143. 

3 The circular rainbows, occasionally seen amongst the 
Andes, are described by Ulloa. 



328 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



Because TJwu didst not leave me, my God ! 
Thou wert with those that bore the truth of old 
Into the deserts from th' oppressor's rod, 
And made the caverns of the rock their fold ; 
And in the hidden chambers of the dead, 
Our guiding lamp with fire immortal fed ; 
And met when stars met, by their beams to hold 
The free heart's communing with Thee, — and 
Thou [then as now ! 

Wert in the midst, felt, own'd — the Strengthener 



Yet once I sank. Alas ! man's wavering mind ! 
Wherefore and whence the gusts that o'er it blow 1 ? 
How they bear with them, floating uncombined, 
The shadows of the past, that come and go, 
As o'er the deep the old long-buried things 
Which a storm's working to the surface brings ! 
Is the reed shaken, — and must we be so, 
With every wind] So, Father ! must we be, [Thee. 
Till we can fix undimm'd our steadfast eyes on 



Once my soul died within me. What had thrown 
That sickness o'er it 1 Even a passing thought 
Of a clear spring, whose side, with flowers o'er- 

grown, 
Fondly and oft my boyish steps had sought ! 
Perchance the damp roof's water-drops that fell 
Just then, low tinkling through my vaulted cell, 
Intensely heard amidst the stillness, caught 
Some tone from memory, of the music, welling 
Ever with that fresh rill, from its deep rocky 

dwelling. 



But so my spirit's fever'd longings wrought, 
Wakening, it might be, to the faint, sad sound, 
That from the darkness of the walls they brought 
A loved scene round me, visibly around. 1 

1 Many striking instances of the vividness with which the 
mind, when strongly excited, has been known to renovate 
past impressions, and embody them into visible imagery, are 
noticed and accounted for in Dr Hibbert's Philosophy of Ap- 
paritions. The following illustrative passage is quoted in the 
same work, from the writings of the late Dr Ferriar: — " I 
remember that, about the age of fourteen, it was a source of 
great amusement to myself, if I had been viewing any inter- 
esting object in the course of the day, such as a romantic 
ruin, a fine seat, or a review of a body of troops, as soon as 
evening came on, if I had occasion to go into a dark 
room, the whole scene was brought before my eyes with 
a brilliancy equal to what it had possessed in daylight, 
and remained visible for several minutes. I have no doubt 
that dismal and frightful images have been thus presented 



Yes ! kindling, spreading, brightening, hue by hue, 
Like stars from midnight, through the gloom, it 
grew, [bound 

That haunt of youth, hope, manhood ! — till the 
Of my shut cavern seem'd dissolved, and I 
Girt by the solemn hills and burning pomp of sky. 



I look'd — and lo ! the clear, broad river flowing 
Past the old Moorish ruin on the steep, 
The lone tower dark against a heaven all glowing, 
Like seas of glass and fire ! — I saw the sweep 
Of glorious woods far down the mountain side, 
And their still shadows in the gleaming tide, 
And the red evening on its waves asleep ; 
And midst the scene — oh ! more than all — there 
smiled [child ! 

My child's fair face, and hers, the mother of my 



With their soft eyes of love and gladness raised 
Up to the flushing sky, as when we stood 
Last by that river, and in silence gazed 
On the rich world of sunset. But a flood 
Of sudden tenderness my soul oppress'd ; 
And I rush'd forward, with a yearning breast, 
To clasp — alas ! — a vision ! Wave and wood, 
And gentle faces, lifted in the light [sight. 

Of day's last hectic blush, all melted from my 



Then darkness ! — oh ! th' unutterable gloom 
That seem'd as narrowing round me, making less 
And less my dungeon, when, with all its bloom, 
That bright dream vanish'd from my loneliness ! 
It floated off, the beautiful ! yet left 
Such deep thirst in my soul, that thus bereft, 
I lay down, sick with passion's vain excess, 
And pray'd to die. How oft would sorrow weep 
Her weariness to death, if he might come like 



to young persons after scenes of domestic affliction or public 
horror." 

The following passage from the Alcazar of Seville, a tale or 
historical sketch, by the author of Doblado's Letters, affords 
a further illustration of this subject. "When, descending 
fast into the vale of years, I strongly fix my mind'* eye on 
those narrow, shady, silent streets, where I breathed the 
scented air which came rustling through the surrounding 
groves ; where the footsteps re-echoed from the clean watered 
porches of the houses, and where every object spoke of quiet 

and contentment ; the objects around me 

begin to fade into a mere delusion, and not only the thoughts, 
but the external sensations, which I then experienced, revive 
with a reality that almost makes me shudder— it has so much 
the character of a trance or vision." 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



329 



But I was roused — and how 1 It is no tale, 
Even midst thy shades, thou wilderness ! to tell. 
I would not have my boy's young cheek made pale, 
Nor haunt his sunny rest with what befell 
In that drear prison-house. His eye must grow 
More dark with thought, more earnest his fair 
brow, [swell ; 

More high his heart in youthful strength must 
So shall it fitly burn when all is told : [enfold. 
Let childhood's radiant mist the free child yet 



It is enough that through such heavy hours 

As wring us by our fellowship of clay, 

I lived, and undegraded. We have powers 

To snatch th' oppressor's bitter joy away ! 

Shall the wild Indian for his savage fame 

Laugh and expire, and shall not Truth's high name 

Bear up her martyrs with all-conquering sway 1 

It is enough that torture may be vain : 

I had seen Alvar die — the strife was won from Pain. 



And faint not, heart of man ! Though years wane 

slow, 
There have been those that from the deepest caves, 
And cells of night, and fastnesses below 
The stormy dashing of the ocean waves, 
Down, farther down than gold lies hid, have nursed 
A quenchless hope, and watch'd their time, and 

burst 
On the bright day, like wakeners from the graves ! 
I was of such at last ! — unchain'd I trode 
This green earth, taking back my freedom from 

my God ! 



That was an hour to send its fadeless trace 
Down life's far-sweeping tide ! A dim, wild night, 
Like sorrow, hung upon the soft moon's face, 
Yet how my heart leap'd in her blessed light ! 
The shepherd's light — the sailor's on the sea — 
The hunter's homeward from the mountains free, 
Where its lone smile makes tremulously bright 
The thousand streams ! — I could but gaze through 
tears. [years ! 

Oh ! what a sight is heaven, thus first beheld for 



The rolling clouds ! — they have the whole blue space 
Above to sail in — all the dome of sky ! 
My soul shot with them in their breezy race 
O'er star and gloom ; but I had yet to fly, 



As flies the hunted wolf. A secret spot 

And strange, I knew — the sunbeam knew it not, — 

Wildest of all the savage glens that lie 

In far sierras, hiding their deep springs, [wings. 

And traversed but by storms, or sounding eagles' 

XIX. 

Ay, and I met the storm there ! I had gain'd 
The covert's heart with swift and stealthy tread : 
A moan went past me, and the dark trees rain'd 
Their autumn foliage rustling on my head ; 
A moan — a hollow gust — and there I stood 
Girt with majestic night, and ancient wood, 
And foaming water. — Thither might have fled 
The mountain Christian with his faith of yore, 
When Afric's tambour shook the ringing western 
shore ! 



But through the black ravine the storm came 

swelling : 
— Mighty thou art amidst the hills, thou blast ! 
In thy lone course the kingly cedars felling, 
Like plumes upon the path of battle cast ! 
A rent oak thunder'd down beside my cave, 
Booming it rush'd, as booms a deep sea wave; 
A falcon soar'd ; a startled wild-deer pass'd ; 
A far-off bell toll'd faintly through the roar. 
How my glad spirit swept forth with the winds 

once more ! 

XXI. 

And with the arrowy lightnings ! — for they flash' d, 
Smiting the branches in their fitful play, 
And brightly shivering where the torrents dash'd 
Up, even to crag and eagle's nest, their spray ! 
And there to stand amidst the pealing strife, 
The strong pines groaning with tempestuous life, 
And all the mountain-voices on their way, — 
Was it not joy ? 'Twas joy in rushing might, 
After those years that wove but one long dead of 
night ! 



There came a softer hour, a lovelier moon, 
And lit me to my home of youth again, 
Through the dim chestnut shade, where oft at noon, 
By the fount's flashing burst, my head had lain 
In gentle sleep. But now I pass'd as one 
That may not pause where wood-streams whisper- 
ing run, 
Or light sprays tremble to a bird's wild strain ; 
Because th' avenger's voice is in the wind, [behind. 
The foe's quick, rustling step close on the leaves 



330 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



XXIII. 

My home of youth ! Oh ! if indeed to part 
With the soul's loved ones be a mournful thing, 
When we go forth in buoyancy of heart, 
And bearing all the glories of our spring 
For life to breathe on,— is it less to meet, 
When these are faded ?• — who shall call it sweet 1 
Even though love's mingling tears may haply bring 
Balm as they fall, too well their heavy showers 
Teach us how much is lost of all that once was ours ! 



Not by the sunshine, with its golden glow, 
Nor the green earth, nor yet the laughing sky, 
Nor the fair flower-scents, 1 as they come and go 
In the soft air, like music wandering by ; 
— Oh ! not by these, th' unfailing, are we taught 
How time and sorrow on our frames have wrought; 
But by the sadden'd eye, the daiken'd brow 
Of kindred aspect, and the long dim gaze, 
Which tells us we are changed — how changed 
from other days ! 



Before my father, in my place of birth, 
I stood an alien. On the very floor 
Which oft had trembled to my boyish mirth, 
The love that rear'd me knew my face no more ! 
There hung the antique armour, helm and crest, 
Whose every stain woke childhood in my breast ; 
There droop'd the banner, with the marks it bore 
Of Paynim spears ; and I, the worn in frame 
And heart, what there was 1 1 — another and the 
same ! 



Then bounded in a boy, with clear, dark eye — 
How should he know his father] When we parted, 
From the soft cloud which mantles infancy, 
His soul, just wakening into wonder, darted 
Its first looks round. Him follow'd one, the bride 
Of my young days, the wife how loved and tried! 
Her glance met mine — I could not speak— she 

started 
With a bewilder'd gaze —until there came [name. 
Tears to my burning eyes, and from my lips her 

XXVII. 

She knew me then ! I murmur'd " Leonor !" 
And her heart answer'd ! Oh ! the voice is known 



1 " For because the breath of flowers is farre sweeter in the 
aire {where it comes and goes like the warbling of musick) 
than in the hand, therefore nothing is more fit for that 



First from all else, and swiftest to restore 
Love's buried images, with one low tone [faded, 
That strikes like lightning, when the cheek is 
And the brow heavily with thought o'ershaded, 
And all the brightness from the aspect gone ! 
— Upon my breast she sunk, when doubt was fled, 
Weeping as those may weep, that meet in woe 
and dread. 

XXVIII. 

For there we might not rest. Alas ! to leave 
Those native towers, and know that they must fall 
By slow decay, and none remain to grieve 
When the weeds cluster'd on the lonely wall ! 
We were the last — my boy and I — the last 
Of a long line which brightly thence had pass'd ! 
My father bless'd me as I left his hall — [years, 
With his deep tones and sweet, though full of 
He bless'd me there, and bathed my child's young 
head with tears. 



I had brought sorrow on his gray hairs down, 
And cast the darkness of my branded name 
(For so he deem'd it) on the clear renown, 
My own ancestral heritage of fame. 
And yet he bless'd me ! Father ! if the dust 
Lie on those lips benign, my spirit's trust 
Is to behold thee yet, where grief and shame 
Dim the bright day no more ; and thou wilt know 
That not through guilt thy son thus bow'd thine 
age with woe ! 



And thou, my Leonor ! that unrepining, 
If sad in soul, didst quit all else for me, 
When stars, the stars that earliest rise, are shining, 
How their soft glance unseals each thought of thee! 
For on our flight they smiled ; their dewy rays, 
Through the last olives, lit thy tearful gaze 
Back to the home we never more might see. 
So pass'd we on, like earth's first exiles, turning 
Fond looks where hung the sword above their 
Eden burning. 

XXXI. 

It was a woe to say, " Farewell, my Spain ! 
The sunny and the vintage land, farewell ! " 
— I could have died upon the battle-plain 
For thee, my country ! but I might not dwell 



delight than to know what be the flowers and plants which 
doe best perfume the aire." — Lord Bacon's Essay on 
Gardens. 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



331 



In thy sweet vales, at peace. The voice of song 
Breathes, with the myrtle scent, thy hills along ; 
The citron's glow is caught from shade and dell : 
But what are these 1 upon thy flowery sod 
I might not kneel, and pour my free thoughts out 
to God ! 

XXXII. 

O'er the blue deep I fled, the chainless deep ! 
Strange heart of man ! that e'en midst woe swells 
high, [sweep, 

When through the foam he sees his proud bark 
Flinging out joyous gleams to wave and sky ! 
Yes ! it swells high, whate'er he leaves behind, 
His spirit rises with the rising wind ; 
For, wedded to the far futurity, 
On, on, it bears him ever, and the main [gain. 
Seems rushing, like his hope, some happier shore to 

XXXIII. 

Not thus is woman. Closely her still heart 
Doth twine itself with e'en each lifeless thing 
Which, long remember'd, seem'd to bear its part 
In her calm joys. For ever would she cling, 
A brooding dove, to that sole spot of earth 
Where she hath loved, and given her children birth, 
And heard their first sweet voices. There may 

spring 
Array no path, renew no flower, no leaf, [grief. 
But hath its breath of home, its claim to farewell 

xxxrv. 
I look'd on Leonor, — and if there seem'd 
A cloud of more than pensiveness to rise 
In the faint smiles that o'er her features gleam'd, 
And the soft darkness of her serious eyes, 
Misty with tender gloom, I call'd it naught 
But the fond exile's pang, a lingering thought 
Of her own vale, with all its melodies 
And living light of streams. Her soul would rest 
Beneath your shades, I said, bowers of the gorgeous 
West ! 



XXXV. 

Oh, could we live in visions ! could we hold 
Delusion faster, longer, to o\ir breast, 
When it shuts from us, with its mantle's fold, 
That which we see not, and are therefore blest ! 
But they, our loved and loving — they to whom 
We have spread out our souls in joy and gloom, 
Their looks and accents, unto ours address'd, 
Have been a language of familiar tone 
Too long to breathe, at last, dark sayings and 
unknown. 



XXXVI. 

I told my heart, 'twas but the exile's woe 
Which press'd on that sweet bosom ; I deceived 
My heart but half : a whisper, faint and low, 
Haunting it ever, and at times believed, 
Spoke of some deeper cause. How oft we seem 
Like those that dream, and know the while they 

dream — 
Midst the soft falls of airy voices grieved [play, 
And troubled, while bright phantoms round them 
By a dim sense that all will float and fade away ! 

XXXVII. 

Yet, as if chasing joy, I woo'd the breeze 
To speed me onward with the wings of morn. 
Oh ! far amidst the solitary seas, 
Which were not made for man, what man hath 
borne, [bear, 

Answering their moan with his ! — what thou didst 
My lost and loveliest ! while that secret care 
Grew terror, and thy gentle spirit, worn 
By its dull brooding weight, gave way at last, 
Beholding me as one from hope for ever cast ! 

XXXVIII. 

For unto thee, as through all change, reveal'd 
Mine inward being lay. In other eyes 
I had to bow me yet, and make a shield, 
To fence my burning bosom, of disguise ; 
By the still hope sustain' d, ere long to win 
Some sanctuary, whose green retreats within 
My thoughts unfetter'd to their source might rise, 
Like songs and scents of morn. But thou didst 
look [shook. 

Through all my soul, and thine e'en unto fainting 

XXXIX. 

Fallen, fallen, I seem'd — yet, oh ! not less beloved, 
Though from thy love was pluck'd the early pride, 
And harshly by a gloomy faith reproved, 
And sear'd with shame ! Though each young 

flower had died, 
There was the root, — strong, living, not the less 
That all it yielded now was bitterness ; 
Yet still such love as quits not misery's side, 
Nor drops from guilt its ivy-like embrace, 
Nor turns away from death's its pale heroic face. 



Yes ! thou hadst follow'd me through fear and flight ! 
Thou wouldst have follow'd had my pathway led 
E'en to the scaffold ; had the flashing light 
Of the raised axe made strong men shrink with 
dread, 



332 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



Thou, midst the hush of thousands, wouldst have 

been 
With thy clasp'd hands beside me kneeling seen, 
And meekly bowing to the shame thy head — 
The shame ! — oh ! making beautiful to view 
The might of human love — fair thing ! so bravely 

true ! 



There was thine agony— to love so well 
Where fear made love life's chastener. Hereto- 
fore, 
Whate'er of earth's disquiet round thee fell, 
Thy soul, o'erpassing its dim bounds, could soar 
Away to sunshine, and thy clear eye speak 
Most of the skies when grief most touch'd thy 

cheek. 
Now, that far brightness faded, never more 
Could thou lift heavenwards for its hope thy heart, 
Since at heaven's gate it seem'd that thou and I 
must part. 



Alas ! and life hath moments when a glance — 
(If thought to sudden watchfulness be stirr'd) — 
A flush — a fading of the cheek, perchance — 
A word — less, less — the cadence of a word, 
Lets in our gaze the mind's dim veil beneath, 
Thence to bring haply knowledge fraught with 

death ! 
Even thus, what never from thy lip was heard 
Broke on my soul. I knew that in thy sight 
I stood, ho we'er beloved, a recreant from the light. 



Thy sad, sweet hymn, at eve, the seas along, — 
Oh ! the deep soul it breathed !— the love, the woe, 
The fervour, pour'd in that full gush of song, 
As it went floating through the fiery glow 
Of the rich sunset ! — bringing thoughts of Spain, 
With all their vesper voices, o'er the main, 
Which seem'd responsive in its murmuring flow. 
" Ave sanctissimaf" — how oft that lay [away ! 
Hath melted from my heart the martyr strength 

Ave, sanctissima ! 
'Tis nightfall on the sea ; 

Ora pro nobis ! 
Our souls rise to thee ! 

Watch us, while shadows lie 
O'er the dim waters spread ; 

Hear the heart's lonely sigh — 
Thine too hath bled ! 



Thou that hast look'd on death, 
Aid us when death is near ! 

Whisper of heaven to faith ; 
Sweet Mother, hear ! 

Ora pro nobis ! 
The wave must rock our sleep, 

Ora, Mater, ora ! 
Thou star of the deep ! 



" Ora pro nobis, Mater/" — What a spell 
Was in those notes, with day's last glory dying 
On the flush'd waters — seem'd they not to swell 
From the far dust wherein my sires were lying 
With crucifix and sword ? Oh ! yet how clear 
Comes their reproachful sweetness to mine ear ! 
" Ora " — with all the purple waves replying, 
All my youth's visions rising in the strain — 
And I had thought it much to bear the rack and 
chain ! 

XLV. 

Torture ! the sorrow of affection's eye, 
Fixing its meekness on the spirit's core, 
Deeper, and teaching more of agony, 
May pierce than many swords ! — and this I bore 
With a mute pang. Since I had vainly striven 
From its free springs to pour the truth of heaven 
Into thy trembling soul, my Leonor ! 
Silence rose up where hearts no hope could share : 
Alas ! for those that love, and may not blend in 
prayer ! 

XLVI. 

We could not pray together midst the deep, 
Which, like a floor of sapphire, round us lay, 
Through days of splendour, nights too bright for 

sleep, 
Soft, solemn, holy ! We were on our way 
Unto the mighty Cordillera land, 
With men whom tales of that world's golden strand 
Had lured to leave their vines. Oh ! who shall say 
What thoughts rose in us, when the tropic sky 
Touch'd all its molten seas with sunset's alchemy ! 

XL VII. 

Thoughts no more mingled ! Then came night — 

th' intense 
Dark blue — the burning stars ! I saw thee shine 
Once more, in thy serene magnificence, 
Southern Cross ! 1 as when thy radiant sign 

1 " The pleasure we felt on discovering the Southern Cross 
was warmly shared by such of the crew as had lived in the 



THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



First drew my gaze of youth. No, not as then ; 
I had been stricken by the darts of men 
Since those fresh days; and now thy light divine 
Look'd on mine anguish, while within me strove 
The still small voice against the might of suffering 
love. 

XLVIII. 

But thou, the clear, the glorious ! thou wert pouring 
Brilliance and joy upon the crystal wave, 
While she that met thy ray with eyes adoring, 
Stood in the lengthening shadow of the grave ! 
Alas ! I watch'd her dark religious glance, 
As it still sought thee through the heaven's ex- 
panse, [gave 
Bright Cross ! and knew not that I watch'd what 
But passing lustre — shrouded soon to be — [sea ! 
A soft light found no more — no more on earth or 



I knew not all — yet something of unrest 
Sat on my heart. Wake, ocean-wind ! I said ; 
Waft us to land, in leafy freshness drest, 
Where, through rich clouds of foliage o'er her head, 
Sweet day may steal, and rills unseen go by, 
Like singing voices, and the green earth lie 
Starry with flowers, beneath her graceful tread ! 
But the calm bound us midst the glassy main : 
Ne'er was her step to bend earth's living flowers 
again. 



Yes ! as if heaven upon the waves were sleeping, 

Vexing my soul with quiet, there they lay, 

All moveless, through their blue transparence 

keeping 
The shadows of our sails, from day to day ; [woe — 

While she oh ! strongest is the strong heart's 

And yet I live ! I feel the sunshine's glow — 
And I am he that look'd, and saw decay 
Steal o'er the fair of earth, th' adored too much ! — 
It is a fearful thing to love what death may touch. 



colonies. In the solitude of the seas, we hail a star as a 
friend from whom we have long been separated. Among the 
Portuguese and the Spaniards, peculiar motives seem to 
increase this feeling; a religious sentiment attaches them to 
a constellation, the form of which recalls the sign of the faith 
planted by their ancestors in the deserts of the New World. 

It has been observed at what hour of the 

night, in different seasons, the Cross of the South is erect or 
inclined. It is a time-piece that advances very regularly 
near four minutes a-day, and no other group of stars exhibits 
to the naked eye an observation of time so easily made. 
How often have we heard our guides exclaim, in the savan- 
nahs of Venezuela, or in the desert extending from Lima to 



A fearful thing that love and death may dwell 
In the same world ! She faded on — and 1, 
Blind to the last, there needed death to tell 
My trusting soul that she could fade to die ! 
Yet, ere she parted, I had mark'd a change ; 
But it breathed hope — 'twas beautiful, though 

strange : 
Something of gladness in the melody 
Of her low voice, and in her words a flight 
Of airy thought — alas ! too perilously bright ! 



And a clear sparkle in her glance, yet wild, 
And quick, and eager, like the flashing gaze 
Of some all-wondering and awakening child, 
That first the glories of the earth surveys. 
How could it thus deceive me ? She had worn 
Around her, like the dewy mists of morn, 
A pensive tenderness through happiest days ; 
And a soft world of dreams had seem'd to lie 
Still in her dark, and deep, and spiritual eye. 



And I could hope in that strange fire ! — she 

died, 
She died, with all its lustre on her mien ! 
The day was melting from the waters wide, 
And through its long bright hours her thoughts had 

been, 
It seem'd, with restless and unwonted yearning, 
To Spain's blue skies and dark sierras turning ; 
For her fond words were all of vintage-scene, 
And flowering myrtle, and sweet citron's breath : 
Oh ! with what vivid hues life comes back oft on 

death ! 

LIV. 

And from her lips the mountain-songs of old, 
In wild, faint snatches, fitfully had sprung ; 
Songs of the orange bower, the Moorish hold, 
The " Rio verde," x on her soul that hung, 



Truxillo, 'Midnight is past — the Cross begins to bend!' 
How often these words reminded us of that affecting scene 
where Paul and Virginia, seated near the source of the river 
of Lataniers, conversed together for the last time; and where 
the old man, at the sight of the Southern Cross, warns them 
that it is time to separate ! " — De Humboldt's Travels. 

1 "Rio verde! rio verde!" the popular Spanish romance, 
known to the English reader in Percy's translation : — 

" Gentle river ! gentle river ! 
Lo, thy streams are stain'd with gore ; 
Many a brave and noble captain 
Floats along thy willow'd shore," etc. 



334 



THE FOEEST SANCTUARY. 



And thence flow'd forth. But now the sun was low, 
And watching by my side its last red glow, 
That ever stills the heart, once more she sung 
Her own soft " Or a, Mater ! " and the sound 
Was e'en like love's farewell — so mournfully 
profound. 



The boy had dropp'd to slumber at our feet ; 
" And I have lull'd him to his smiling rest 
Once more ! " she said. I raised him — it was sweet, 
Yet sad, to see the perfect calm, which bless'd 
His look that hour : for now her voice grew weak ; 
And on the flowery crimson of his cheek, 
With her white lips, a long, long kiss she press' d, 
Yet light, to wake him not. Then sank her head 
Against my bursting heart. What did I clasp 1 — 
The dead ! 



I call'd ! To call what answers not our cries — 
By what we loved to stand unseen, unheard — ■ 
With the loud passion of our tears and sighs, 
To see but some cold glittering ringlet stirr'd; 
And in the quench'd eye's fixedness to gaze, 
All vainly searching for the parted rays — [word 
This is what waits us ! Dead ! — with that chill 
To link our bosom-names ! For this we pour 
Our souls upon the dust — nor tremble to adore ! 



But the true parting came ! I look'd my last 
On the sad beauty of that slumbering face : 
How could I think the lovely spirit pass'd 
Which there had left so tenderly its trace ? 
Yet a dim awfulness was on the brow — 
No ! not like sleep to look upon art thou, 
Death, Death ! She lay, a thing for earth's embrace, 
To cover with spring- wreaths. For earth's ? — the 
wave [her grave ! 

That gives the bier no flowers, makes moan above 

LVIII. 

On the mid-seas a knell ! — for man was there, 
Anguish and love — the mourner with his dead ! 
A long, low-rolling knell — a voice of prayer — 
Dark glassy waters, like a desert spread — ■ 
And the pale-shining Southern Cross on high, 
Its faint stars fading from a solemn sky, 
Where mighty clouds before the dawn grew red : 

1 De Humboldt, in describing the burial of a young Astu- 
rian at sea, mentions the entreaty of the officiating priest, 
that the body, which had been brought upon deck during the 
night, might not be committed to the waves until after sun- 



Were these things round me 1 Such o'er memory 

sweep [deep. 

Wildly, when aught brings back that burial of the 



Then the broad, lonely sunrise ! — and the plash 
Into the sounding waves ! l Around her head 
They parted, with a glancing moment's flash, 
Then shut — and all was still. And now thy bed 
Is of their secrets, gentlest Leonor ! 
Once fairest of young brides ! — and never more, 
Loved as thou wert, may human tear be shed 
Above thy rest ! No mark the proud seas keep, 
To show where he that wept may pause again to 
weep ! 



So the depths took thee ! Oh ! the sullen sense 
Of desolation in that hour compress'd ! 
Dust going down, a speck, amidst th' immense 
And gloomy waters, leaving on their breast 
The trace a weed might leave there ! Dust ! — 

the thing 
Which to the heart was as a living spring 
Of joy, with fearfulness of love possess' d, 
Thus sinking ! Love, joy, fear, all crush'dto this — 
And the wide heaven so far — so fathomless th' 

abyss ! 



Where the line sounds not, where the wrecks lie 
low, [are they 

What shall wake thence the dead 1 Blest, blest, 
That earth to earth entrust, for they may know 
And tend the dwelling whence the slumberer's clay 
Shall rise at last ; and bid the young flowers bloom 
That waft a breath of hope around the tomb ; 
And kneel upon the dewy turf to pray ! 
But thou, what cave hath dimly chamber'd thee ? 
Vain dreams ! — oh ! art thou not where there is 
no more sea ? 2 

LXII. 

The wind rose free and singing : when for ever, 
O'er that sole spot of all the watery plain, 
I could have bent my sight with fond endeavour 
Down, where its treasure was, its glance to strain ; 
Then rose the reckless wind ! Before our prow 
The white foam flash'd — ay, joyously, and thou 
Wert left with all the solitary main 

rise, in order to pay it the last rites according to the usage of 
the Romish Church. 
2 " And there was no more sea." — Revelation, xxi. 1. 






THE FOREST SANCTUARY. 



335 



Around thee — and thy beauty in my heart, 
And thy meek, sorrowing love — oh ! where could 
that depart 1 

LXIII. 

I will not speak of woe ; I may not tell — 
Friend tells not such to friends — the thoughts 

which rent 
My fainting spirit, when its wild farewell 
Across the billows to thy grave was sent, 
Thou, there most lonely ! He that sits above, 
In his calm glory, will forgive the love 
His creatures bear each other, even if blent 
With a vain worship ; for its close is dim [Him ! 
Ever with grief which leads the wrung soul back to 

LXIV. 

And with a milder pang if noAv I bear 

To think of thee in thy forsaken rest, 

If from my heart be lifted the despair, 

The sharp remorse with healing influence press'd, 

If the soft eyes that visit me in sleep 

Look not reproach, though still they seem to weep ; 

It is that He my sacrifice hath bless'd, 

And fill'd my bosom, through its inmost cell, 

With a deep chastening sense that all at last is well. 

LXV. 

Yes ! thou art now Oh ! wherefore doth the 

thought 
Of the wave dashing o'er thy long bright hair, 
The sea-weed into its dark tresses wrought, 
The sand thy pillow — thou that wert so fair ! 
Come o'er me still ! Earth, earth ! — it is the hold 
Earth ever keeps on that of earthly mould ! 
But thou art breathing now in purer air, 
I well believe, and freed from all of error, 
Which blighted here the root of thy sweet life 

with terror. 



And if the love, which here was passing light, 
Went with what died not — oh ! that this we knew, 
But this ! — that through the silence of the night, 
Some voice, of all the lost ones and the true, 

1 The bridges over many deep chasms amongst the Andes 
are pendulous, and formed only of the fibres of equinoctial 
plants. Their tremulous motion is thus alluded to in one of 
the stanzas of Gertrude of Wyoming : — 

"Anon some wilder portraiture he draws, 
Of nature's savage glories he would speak ; 
The loneliness of earth, that overawes, 
Where, resting by the tomb of old Cacique, 
The lama-driver on Peruvia's peak 
If or voice nor living motion marks around, 
But storks that to the boundless forest shriek, 



Would speak, and say, if in their far repose, 
We are yet aught of what we were to those 
We call the dead ! Their passionate adieu, 
Was it but breath, to perish 1 Holier trust 
Be mine ! — thy love is there, but purified from dust ! 

LXVIL 

A thing all heavenly ! — clear'd from that which hung 
As a dim cloud between us, heart and mind ! 
Loosed from the fear, the grief, whose tendrils flung 
A chain so darkly with its growth entwined. 
This is my hope ! — though when the sunset fades, 
When forests rock the midnight on their shades, 
When tones of wail are in the rising wind, 
Across my spirit some faint doubt may sigh ; 
For the strong hours will sway this frail mortality ! 

LXVIII. 

We have been wand'rers since those days of woe, 
Thy boy and I ! As wild birds tend their young, 
So have I tended him — my bounding roe ! 
The high Peruvian solitudes among ; 
And o'er the Andes' torrents borne his form, 
Where our frail bridge had quiver'd midst the 

storm. 1 
But there the war-notes of my country rung, 
And, smitten deep of heaven and man, I fled 
To hide in shades unpierced a mark'd and weary 

head. 



But he went on in gladness — that fair child ! 
Save when at times his bright eye seem'd to dream, 
And his young lips, which then no longer smiled, 
Ask'd of his mother ! That was but a gleam 
Of memory, fleeting fast ; and then his play 
Through the wide Llanos 2 cheer'd again our way, 
And by the mighty Oronoco stream, 3 
On whose lone margin we have heard at morn, 
From the mysterious rocks, the sunrise-music 
borne : 



So like a spirit's voice ! a harping tone, 
Lovely, yet ominous to mortal ear — 

Or wild-cane arch, high flung o'er gulf profound, 
That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound." 

2 Llanos, or savannahs, the great plains in South America. 

3 De Humboldt speaks of these rocks on the shores of the 
Oronoco. Travellers have heard from time to time subter- 
raneous sounds proceed from them at sunrise, resembling 
those of an organ. He believes in the existence of this 
mysterious music, although not fortunate enough to have 
heard it himself; and thinks that it may be produced by 
currents of air issuing through the crevices. 



336 



THE FOEEST SANCTUABY. 



Such as might reach us from a world unknown, 
Troubling man's heart with thrills of joy and fear ! 
'Twas sweet ! — yet those deep southern shades 

oppress'd 
My soul with stillness, like the calms that rest 
On melancholy waves i 1 I sigh'd to hear 
Once more earth's breezy sounds, her foliage fann'd, 
And turn'd to seek the wilds of the red hunter's land. 

LXXI. 

And we have won a bower of refuge now, 
In this fresh waste, the breath of whose repose 
Hath cool'd, like dew, the fever of my brow, 
And whose green oaks and cedars round me close 
As temple walls and pillars, that exclude 
Earth's haunted dreams from their free solitude ; 
All, save the image and the thought of those 
Before us gone — our loved of early years, [tears. 
Gone where affection's cup hath lost the taste of 

LXXII. 

I see a star — eve's first-born ! — in whose train 
Past scenes, words, looks, come back. The arrowy 

spire 
Of the lone cypress, as of wood-girt fane, 
Eests dark and still amidst a heaven of fire ; 
The pine gives forth its odours, and the lake 
Gleams like one ruby, and the soft winds wake, 
Till every string of nature's solemn lyre 
Is touch'd to answer ; its most secret tone [own. 
Drawn from each tree, for each hath whispers all its 

LXXIII. 

And hark ! another murmur on the air, 

Not of the hidden rills or quivering shades ! — 

That is the cataract's, which the breezes bear, 

Filling the leafy twilight of the glades 

With hollow surge-like sounds, as from the bed 

Of the blue, mournful seas, that keep the dead : 

1 The same distinguished traveller frequently alludes to the 
extreme stillness of the air in the equatorial regions of the 
New World, and particularly on the thickly wooded shores 
of the Oronoco. " In this neighbourhood," he says, " no 
breath of wind ever agitates the foliage." 

CRITICAL ANNOTATIONS ON " THE FOREST SANCTUARY." 

[" In the autumn of 1824 she began the poem which, in 
point of finish and consecutiveness, if not in popularity, may 
be considered her principal work, and which she herself in- 
clined to look upon as her best. ' I am at present,' she wrote 
to one always interested in her literary occupations, ' engaged 
upon a poem of some length, the idea of which was suggested 
to me by some passages in your friend Mr Blanco White's de- 
lightful writings. 1 It relates to the sufferings of a Spanish 

1 " Letters from Spain by Don Leucadio Doblado." 



But they are far ! The low sun here pervades 

Dim forest arches, bathing with red gold 

Their stems, till each is made a marvel to behold, — 

LXXIV. 

Gorgeous, yet full of gloom ! In such an hour, 

The vesper-melody of dying bells [tower 

Wanders through Spain, from each gray convent's 

O'er shining rivers pour'd and olive dells, 

By every peasant heard, and muleteer, 

And hamlet, round my home : and I am here, 

Living again through all my life's farewells, 

In these vast woods, where farewell ne'er was 



And sole I lift to heaven a sad heart — yet unbroken ! 

LXXV. 

In such an hour are told the hermit's beads ; 
With the white sail the seaman's hymn floats by : 
Peace be with all ! whate'er their varying creeds, 
With all that send up holy thoughts on high ! 
Come to me, boy ! By Guadalquiver's vines, 
By every stream of Spain, as day declines, 
Man's prayers are mingled in the rosy sky. 
We, too, will pray; nor yet unheard, my child ! 
Of Him whose voice we hear at eve amidst the wild. 

LXXVI. 

At eve 1 Oh, through all hours ' From dark 

dreams oft 
Awakening, I look forth, and learn the might 
Of solitude, while thou art breathing soft, 
And low, my loved one ! on the breast of night. 
I look forth on the stars — the shadowy sleep 
Of forests — and the lake whose gloomy deep 
Sends up red sparkles to the fire-flies' light : 
A lonely world ! — even fearful to man's thought, 
But for His presence felt, whom here my soul hath 

sought. 

Protestant, in the time of Philip the Second, and is supposed 
to be narrated by the sufferer himself, who escapes to America. 
I am very much interested in my subject, and hope to com- 
plete the poem in the course of the winter.' The progress of 
this work was watched with great interest in her domestic 
circle, and its touching descriptions would often extract a 
tribute of tears from the fireside auditors. When completed, 
a family consultation was held as to its name. Various titles 
were proposed and rejected, till that of ' The Forest Sanctuary' 
was suggested by her brother, and finally decided upon. 
Though finished early in 1825, the poem was not published 
till the following year, when it was brought out in conjunction 
with the ' Lays of Many Lands,' and a collection of miscel- 
laneous pieces." — Memoir, p. 81. 

" Mrs Hemans may be considered as the representative of 
a new school of poetry, or, to speak more precisely, her poetry 
discovers characteristics of the highest kind, which belong 



ANNOTATIONS ON THE FOKEST SANCTUARY. 



337 



almost exclusively to that of latter times, and have been the 
result of the gradual advancement, and especially the moral 
progress of mankind. It is only when man, under the in- 
fluence of true religion, feels himself connected with whatever 
is infinite, that his affections and powers are fully developed. 
The poetry of an immortal being must be of a different cha- 
racter from that of an earthly being. But, in recurring to 
the classic poets of antiquity, we find that in their conceptions 
the element of religious faith was wanting. Their mythology 
was to them no object of sober belief ; and, had it been so, 
was adapted not to produce but to annihilate devotion. They 
had no thought of regarding the universe as created, animated, 
and ruled by God's all-powerful and omniscient goodness." — 
Professor Norton in Christian Examiner. 

" We will now say a few words of ' The Forest Sanctuary ;' 
but it so abounds with beauty, is so highly finished, and ani- 
mated by so generous a spirit of moral heroism, that we can 
do no justice to our views of it in the narrow space which our 
limits allow us. A Spanish Protestant flies from persecution 
at home to religious liberty in America. He has imbibed the 
spirit of our own fathers, and his mental struggles are described 
in verses, with which the descendants of the pilgrims must 
know how to sympathise. We dare not enter on an ana- 
lysis. From one scene at sea, in the second part, we will 
make a few extracts. The exile is attended by his wife and 
child, but his wife remains true to the faith of her fathers. 



' Ora pro nobis, Mater ! ' what ; 
Was in those notes," etc. 



spell 



" But we must cease making extracts, for we could not 
transfer all that is beautiful in the poem without transferring 
the whole." — North American Review, April 1827. 

" Mrs Hemans considered this poem as almost, if not alto- 
gether, the best of her works. She would sometimes say, 
that in proportion to the praise which had been bestowed upon 
other of her less carefully meditated and shorter compositions, 
she thought it had hardly met with its fair share of success : 
for it was the first continuous effort in which she dared to write 
from the fulness of her own heart — to listen to the promptings 
of her genius freely and fearlessly. The subject was suggested 
by a passage in one of the letters of Don Leucadio Doblado, 
and was wrought upon by her with that eagerness and fervour 
which almost command corresponding results. I have heard 
Mrs Hemans say, that the greater part of this poem was 
written in no more picturesque a retreat than a laundry, to 
which, as being detached from the house, she resorted for un- 
disturbed quiet and leisure. When she read it, while in 
progress, to her mother and sister, they were surprised to tears 
at the increased power displayed in it. She was not prone 
to speak with self-contentment of her own works, but, per- 



haps, the one favourite descriptive passage was that picture of 
a sea-burial in the second canto, — 

' She lay a thing for earth's embrace,' etc. 

" The whole poem, whether in its scenes of superstition — 
the Auto da Fe, the dungeon, the flight, or in its delineation 
of the mental conflicts of its hero — or in its forest pictures of 
the free West, which offer such a delicious repose to the mind, 
is full of happy thoughts and turns of expression. Four lines 
of peculiar delicacy and beauty recur to me as I write, too 
strongly to be passed by. They are from a character of one 
of the martyr sisters. 

' And if she mingled with the festive train, 
It was but as some melancholy star 
Beholds the dance of shepherds on the plain, 
In its bright stillness present, though afar,' 

" But the entire episode of ' Queen -like Teresa — radiant 
Inez,' is wrought up with a nerve and an impulse which men 
of renown have failed to reach. The death of the latter, if, 
perhaps, it be a little too romantic for the stern realities of the 
scene, is so beautifully told, that it cannot be read without 
strong feeling, nor carelessly remembered. And most beau- 
tiful, too, are the sudden outbursts of thankfulness — of the 
quick happy consciousness of liberty with which the narrator 
of this ghastly sacrifice interrupts the tale, to reassure himself, 
' Sport on, my happy child ! for thou art free.' The cha- 
racter of the convert's wife, Leonor, devotedly clingingtohis 
fortunes, without a reproach or a murmur, while her heart 
trembles before him as though she were in the presence of a 
lost spirit, is one of those in which Mrs Hemans' individual 
mode of thought and manner of expression are most happily 
impersonated. As a whole, she was hardly wrong in her own 
estimate of this poem ; and, on recently turning to it, I have 
been surprised to find how well it bears the tests and trials 
with which it is only either fit or rational to examine works 
of the highest order of mind." — Chorley's Memorials of Mrs 
Hemans, p. 126-7. 

" If taste and elegance be titles to enduring fame, we might 
venture securely to promise that rich boon to the author before 
us, who adds to those great merits a tenderness and loftiness of 
feeling, and an ethereal purity of sentiment, which could only 
emanate from the soul of a woman. ) She must beware of be- 
coming too voluminous, and must not venture again on any 
thing so long as ' The Forest Sanctuary.' But if the next gene- 
ration inherits our taste for short poems, we are persuaded it 
will not readily allow her to be forgotten. For we do not hesi- 
tate to say that she is, beyond all comparison, the most touch- 
ing and accomplished writer of occasional verses that our litera- 
ture has yet to boast of." — Lord Jeffrey, in Edinburgh 
Review, October 1829.] 



338 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



[The following pieces may so far be considered a series, as each is intended to be commemorative of some national recol- 
lection, popular custom, or tradition. The idea was suggested by Herder's " Stimmen der Volker in Liedern;" the exe- 
cution is, however, differeut, as the poems in his collection are chiefly translations.] 



MOORISH BRIDAL-SONG. 

[" It is a custom among the Moors, that a female who dies 
unmarried is clothed for interment in wedding apparel, and 
the bridal-song is sung over her remains before they are borne 
from her home." — Narrative of a Ten Tears' Residence in 
Tripoli, by the Sister-in-law of Mr Tully.~\ 

The citron-groves their fruit and flowers were 

strewing 
Around a Moorish palace, while the sigh 
Of low sweet summer winds the branches wooing 
With music through their shadowy bowers went by ; 
Music and voices, from the marble halls 
Through the leaves gleaming, and the fountain- 
falls. 

A song of joy, a bridal-song came swelling 
To blend with fragrance in those southern shades, 
And told of feasts within the stately dwelling, 
Bright lamps, and dancing steps, and gem-crown'd 

maids ; 
And thus it flowed : — yet something in the lay 
Belong'd to sadness, as it died away. 

" The bride comes forth ! her tears no more are 

falling 
To leave the chamber of her infant years ; 
Kind voices from a distant home are calling ; 
She comes like day-spring— she hath done with tears; 
Now must her dark eye shine on other flowers, 
Her soft smile gladden other hearts than ours i — 
Pour the rich odours round ! 

" We haste ! the chosen and the lovely bringing ; 
Love still goes with her from her place of birth ; 
Deep, silent joy within her soul is springing, 
Though in her glance the light no more is mirth ! 
Her beauty leaves us in its rosy years ; 
Her sisters weep — but she hath done with tears ! — 
Now may the timbrel sound !" 

Know'st thou for whom they sang the bridal 

numbers 1 — 
One, whose rich tresses were to wave no more ! 
One, whose pale cheek soft winds, nor gentle 

slumbers, 
Nor Love's own sigh, to rose-tints might restore ! 
Her graceful ringlets o'er a bier were spread. 
Weep for the young, the beautiful,— the dead ! 



THE BIRD'S RELEASE. 

[The Indians of Bengal and of the coast of Malabar bring 
cages filled with birds to the graves of their friends, over which 
they set the birds at liberty. This custom is alluded to in the 
description of Virginia's funeral. — See Paul and Virginia.'] 

Go forth ! for she is gone ! 
With the golden light of her wavy hair, 
She is gone to the fields of the viewless air; 

She hath left her dwelling lone ! 

Her voice hath pass'd away ! 
It hath pass'd away like a summer breeze, 
When it leaves the hills for the far blue seas, 

Where we may not trace its way. 

Go forth, and like her be free ! 
With thy radiant wing, and thy glancing eye, 
Thou hast all the range of the sunny sky, 

And what is our grief to thee 1 

Is it aught e'en to her we mourn 1 ? 
Doth she look on the tears by her kindred shed ? 
Doth she rest with the flowers o'er her gentle head, 

Or float, on the light wind borne] 

We know not — but she is gone ! 
Her step from the dance, her voice from the song, 
And the smile of her eye from the festal throng; 

She hath left her dwelling lone ! 

When the waves at sunset shine, 
We may hear thy voice amidst thousands more, 
In the scented woods of our glowing shore ; 

But we shall not know 'tis thine ! 

Even so with the loved one flown ! 
Her smile in the starlight may wander by, 
Her breath may be near in the wind's low sigh, 

Around us — but all unknown. 

Go forth ! we have loosed thy chain ! 
We may deck thy cage with the richest flowers 
Which the bright day rears in our Eastern bowers.; 

But thou wilt not be lured again. 

Even thus may the summer pour 
All fragrant things on the land's green breast, 
And the glorious earth like a bride be dress'd, 

But it wins her back no more ! 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



339 



THE SWORD OF THE TOMB. 

A NORTHERN LEGEND. 

[The idea of this ballad is taken from a scene in Starkother, 
a tragedy by the Danish poet Ochlenschlager. The sepulchral 
fire here alluded to, and supposed to guard the ashes of deceased 
heroes, is frequently mentioned in the Northern Sagas. Severe 
sufferings to the departed spirit were supposed by the Scandi- 
navian mythologists to be the consequence of any profanation 
of the sepulchre.— See Ochlenschlager's Plays.~\ 

" Voice of the gifted elder time ! 
Voice of the charm and the Runic rhyme ! 
Speak ! from the shades and the depths disclose 
How Sigurd may vanquish his mortal foes ; 

Voice of the buried past ! 
Voice of the grave ! 'tis the mighty hour 
When night with her stars and dreams hath power, 
And my step hath been soundless on the snows, 
And the spell I have sung hath laid repose 

On the billow and the blast." 

Then the torrents of the North 
And the forest pines were still, 
While a hollow chant came forth 
From the dark sepulchral hill. 

" There shines no sun midst the hidden dead, 
But where the day looks not the brave may tread; 
There is heard no song, and no mead is pour'd, 
But the warrior may come to the silent board 

In the shadow of the night. 
There is laid a sword in thy father's tomb, 
And its edge is fraught with thy foeman's doom ; 
But soft be thy step through the silence deep, 
And move not the urn in the house of sleep, 

For the viewless have fearful might ! " 

Then died the solemn lay, 
As a trumpet's music dies, 
By the night-wind borne away 
Through the wild and stormy skies. 

The fir-trees rock'd to the wailing blast, 
As on through the forest the warrior pass'd— 
Through the forest of Odin, the dim and old — 
The dark place of visions and legends, told 

By the fires of Northern pine. 
The fir-trees rock'd, and the frozen ground 
Gave back to his footstep a hollow sound ; 
And it seem'd that the depths of those awful shades, 
From the dreary gloom of their long arcades, 

Gave warning, with voice and sign. 

But the wind strange magic knows, 
To call wild shape and tone . 



From the gray wood's tossing boughs, 
When Night is on her throne. 

The pines closed o'er him with deeper gloom, 
As he took the path to the monarch's tomb : 
The Pole-star shone, and the heavens were bright 
With the arrowy streams of the Northern light ; 

But his road through dimness lay ! 
He pass d, in the heart of that ancient wood, 
The dark shrine stain'd with the victim's blood ; 
Nor paused till the rock, where a vaulted bed 
Had been hewn of old for the kingly dead, 

Arose on his midnight way. 

Then first a moment's chill 
Went shuddering through his breast, 
And the steel-clad man stood still 
Before that place of rest. 

But he cross'd at length, with a deep-drawn breath, 
The threshold-floor of the hall of Death, 
And look'd on the pale mysterious fire 
Which gleam'd from the urn of his warrior-sire 

With a strange and solemn light. 
Then darkly the words of the boding strain 
Like an omen rose on his soul again — 
" Soft be thy step through the silence deep, 
And move not the urn in the house of sleep ; 

For the viewless have fearful might ! " 

But the gleaming sword and shield 
Of many a battle-day 
Hung o'er that urn, reveal'd 
By the tomb-fire's waveless ray ; 

With a faded wreath of oak-leaves bound, 
They hung o'er the dust of the far-renown'd, 
Whom the bright Valkyriur's warning voice 
Had call'd to the banquet where gods rejoice, 

And the rich mead flows in light. 
With a beating heart his son drew near, 
And still rang the verse in his thrilling ear — 
" Soft be thy step through the silence deep, 
And move not the urn in the house of sleep ; 

For the viewless have fearful might ! " 

And many a Saga's rhyme, 
And legend of the grave, 
That shadowy scene and time 
Call'd back, to daunt the brave. 

But he raised his arm— and the flame grew dim, 
And the sword in its light seem'd to wave and 



340 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



And his faltering hand could not grasp it well — 
From the pale oak-wreath, with a clash it fell 

Through the chamber of the dead ! 
The deep tomb rang with the heavy sound, 
And the urn lay shiver'd in fragments round ; 
And a rush, as of tempests, quench'd the fire, 
And the scatter'd dust of his warlike sire 

Was strewn on the champion's head. 

One moment — and all was still 
In the slumberer's ancient hall, 
When the rock had ceased to thrill 
With the mighty weapon's fall. 

The stars were just fading one by one, 

The clouds were just tinged by the early sun, 

When there stream'd through the cavern a torch's 

flame, 
And the brother of Sigurd the valiant came 

To seek him in the tomb. 
Stretch'd on his shield, like the steel-girt slain, 
By moonlight seen on the battle-plain, 
In a speechless trance lay the warrior there ; 
But he wildly woke when the torch's glare 

Burst on him through the gloom. 

" The morning wind blows free, 
And the hour of chase is near : 
Come forth, come forth with me ! 
What dost thou, Sigurd, here V 

" I have put out the holy sepulchral fire, 
I have scatter'd the dust of my warrior-sire ! 
It burns on my head, and it weighs down my heart; 
But the winds shall not wander without their part 

To strew o'er the restless deep ! 
In the mantle of death he was here with me now — 
There was wrath in his eye, there was gloom on 

his brow; 
And his cold still glance on my spirit fell 
With an icy ray and a withering spell — 

Oh ! chill is the house of sleep ! " 

" The morning wind blows free, 
And the reddening sun shines clear ; 
Come forth, come forth with me ! 
It is dark and fearful here ! " 

" He is there, he is there, with his shadowy frown ! 
But gone from his head is the kingly crown — 
The crown from his head, and the spear from his 

hand — 
They have chased him far from the glorious land 
Where the feast of the gods is spread ! 



He must go forth alone on his phantom steed, 
He must ride o'er the grave-hills with stormy speed ! 
His place is no longer at Odin's board, 
He is driven from Valhalla without his sword ; 
But the slayer shall avenge the dead ! " 

That sword its fame had won 
By the fall of many a crest ; 
But its fiercest work was done 
In the tomb, on Sigurd's breast ! 



VALKYBIUR SONG. 

[The Valkyriur, or Fatal Sisters of Northern mythology, 
were supposed to single out the warriors who were to die in 
battle, and be received into the halls of Odin. 

When a northern chief fell gloriously in war, his obsequies 
were honoured with all possible magnificence. His arms, 
gold and silver, war-horse, domestic attendants, and what- 
ever else he held most dear, were placed with him on the 
pile. His dependants and friends frequently made it a point 
of honour to die with their leader, in order to attend on his 
shade in Valhalla, or the Palace of Odin. And, lastly, his 
wife was generally consumed with him on the same pile. — 
See Mallet's Northern Antiquities, Herbert's Helga, &c] 
" Tremblingly flash'd th' inconstant meteor-light, 
Showing thin forms like virgins of this earth; 
Save that all signs of human joy or grief, 
The flush of passion, smile, or tear, had seem'd 
On the fix'd brightness of each dazzling cheek 
Strange and unnatural." Milman. 

The Sea-king woke from the troubled sleep 

Of a vision-haunted night, 
And he look'd from his bark o'er the gloomy deep, 
And counted the streaks of light ; 
For the red sun's earliest ray 
Was to rouse his bands that day 
To the stormy joy of fight ! 

But the dreams of rest were still on earth, 

And the silent stars on high, 
And there waved not the smoke of one cabin hearth 
Midst the quiet of the sky; 
And along the twilight bay, 
In their sleep the hamlets lay, 
For they knew not the Norse were nigh ! 

The Sea-king look'd o'er the brooding wave, 

He turn'd to the dusky shore, [cave, 

And there seem'd, through the arch of a tide- worn 
A gleam, as of snow, to pour ; 
And forth, in watery light, 
Moved phantoms, dimly white, 
Which the garb of woman bore. 

Slowly they moved to the billow-side ; 
And the forms, as they grew more clear, 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 341 


Seem'd each on a tall pale steed to ride, 


But at eve, the kingly hand 


And a shadowy crest to rear, 


Of the battle-axe and brand 


And to beckon with faint hand 


Lay cold on a pile of dead ! 


From the dark and rocky strand, 




And to point a gleaming spear. 






THE CAVERN OF THE THREE TELLS. 


Then a stillness on his spirit fell, 




Before th' unearthly train, 


A SWISS TRADITION. 


For he knew Valhalla's daughters well — 


[The three founders of the Helvetic Confederacy are thought 


The Choosers of the slain ! 


to sleep in a cavern near the Lake of Lucerne. The herds- 


And a sudden rising breeze 


men call them the Three Tells ; and say that they lie there 


Bore, across the moaning seas, 


in their antique garb, in quiet slumber ; and when Switzer- 
land is in her utmost need, they will awaken and regain the 


To his ear their thrilling strain. 


liberties of the land. — See Quarterly Review, No. 44. 




The Grutli, where the confederates held then- nightly meet- 


" There are songs in Odin's Hall 


ings, is a meadow on the shore of the Lake of Lucerne, or 


• 
For the brave ere night to fall ! 


Lake of the Forest Cantons, here called the Forest-Sea.] 


Doth the great sun hide his ray ? 


Oh ! enter not yon shadowy cave, 


He must bring a wrathful day ! 


Seek not the bright spars there, 


Sleeps the falchion in its sheath ? 


Though the whispering pines that o'er it wave 


Swords must do the work of death ! 


With freshness fill the air : 


Begner ! — Sea-king ! — thee we call ! — 


For there the Patriot Three, 


There is joy in Odin's Hall. 


In the garb of old array'd, 




By their native Forest-Sea 


" At the feast, and in the song, 


On a rocky couch are laid. 


Thou shalt be remember'd long ! 




By the green isles of the flood, 


The Patriot Three that met of yore 


Thou hast left thy track in blood ! 


Beneath the midnight sky, 


On the earth and on the sea, 


And leagued their hearts on the Grutli shore 


There are those will speak of thee ! 


In the name of liberty ! 


'Tis enough, — the war-gods call, — 


Now silently they sleep 


There is mead in Odin's Hall ! 


Amidst the hills they freed ; 




But their rest is only deep 


" Begner ! tell thy fair-hair'd bride 


Till their country's hour of need. 


She must slumber at thy side ! 




Tell the brother of thy breast 


They start not at the hunter's call, 


Even for him thy grave hath rest ! 


Nor the Lammer-geyer's cry, 


Tell the raven steed which bore thee, 


Nor the rush of a sudden torrent's fall, 


When the wild wolf fled before thee, 


Nor the Lauwine thundering by ; 


He too with his lord must fall, — 


And the Alpine herdsman's lay, 


There is room in Odin's Hall ! 


To a Switzer's heart so dear ! 




On the wild wind floats away, 


" Lo ! the mighty sun looks forth — 


No more for them to hear. 


Arm ! thou leader of the North ! 




Lo ! the mists of twilight fly — 


But when the battle-horn is blown 


We must vanish, thou must die ! 


Till the Schreckhorn's peaks reply, 


By the sword and by the spear, 


When the Jungfrau's cliffs send back the tone 


By the hand that knows no fear, 


Through their eagles' lonely sky ; 


Sea-king ! nobly thou shalt fall ! — 


When the spear-heads light the lakes, 


There is joy in Odin's Hall ! " 


When trumpets loose the snows, 




When the rushing war-steed shakes 


There was arming heard on land and wave, 


The glacier's mute repose ; 


When afar the sunlight spread, 




And the phantom-forms of the tide-worn cave 


When Uri's beechen woods wave red 


With the mists of morning fled ; 


In the burning hamlet's light — 



342 LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 


Then from the cavern of the dead 


The faithful band, our sires, who fell 


Shall the sleepers wake in might ! 


Here in the narrow battle-dell ! 


With a leap, like Tell's proud leap 




When away the helm he flung, 


If yet, the wilds among, 


And boldly up the steep 


Our silent hearts may burn, 


From the flashing billow sprung ! x 


When the deep mountain-horn hath rung, 




And home our steps may turn, — 


They shall wake beside their Forest-Sea, 


Home ! — home ! — if still that name be dear, 


In the ancient garb they wore 


Praise to the men who perish'd here ! 


When they link'd the hands that made us free, 




On the Grutli's moonlight shore ; 


Look on the white Alps round ! 


And their voices shall be heard, 


Up to their shining snows 


And be answer'd with a shout, 


That day the stormy rolling sound, 


Till the echoing Alps are stirr'd, 


The sound of battle, rose ! 


And the signal-fires blaze out. 


Their caves prolong'd the trumpet's blast, 




Their dark pines trembled as it pass'd ! 


And the land shall see such deeds again 




As those of that proud day 


They saw the princely crest, 


When Winkelried, on Sempach's plain, 


They saw the knightly spear, 


Through the serried spears made way ; 


The banner and the mail-clad breast, 


And when the rocks came down 


Borne down and trampled here ! 


On the dark Morgarten dell, 


They saw — and glorying there they stand, 


And the crowned casques, 2 o'erthrown, 


Eternal records to the land ! 


Before our fathers fell ! 






Praise to the mountain-born, 


For the Klihreihen's 3 notes must never sound 


The brethren of the glen ! 


In a land that wears the chain, 


By them no steel array was worn, 


And the vines on freedom's holy ground 


They stood as peasant-men ! 


Untrampled must remain ; 


They left the vineyard and the field, 


And the yellow harvests wave 


To break an empire's lance and shield ! 


For no stranger's hand to reap, 




While within their silent cave 


Look on the white Alps round ! 


The men of Griitli sleep ! 


If yet, along their steeps, 




Our children's fearless feet may bound, 





Free as the chamois leaps : 




Teach them in song to bless the band 


SWISS SONG, 


Amidst whose mossy graves we stand ! 


ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF AN ANCIENT BATTLE. 


If, by the wood-fire's blaze, 


[The Swiss, even to our days, have continued to celebrate 


When winter stars gleam cold, 


the anniversaries of their ancient battles with much solem- 


The glorious tales of elder days 


nity ; assembling in the open air on the fields where their 
ancestors fought, to hear thanksgivings offered up by the 


May proudly yet be told, 


priests, and the names of all who shared in the glory of the 


Forget not then the shepherd race, 


day enumerated. They afterwards walk in procession to 


Who made the hearth a holy place ! 


chapels, always erected in the vicinity of such scenes, where 




masses are sung for the souls of the departed. — See Planta's 


Look on the white Alps round ! 


History of the Helvetic Confederacy.] 


If yet the Sabbath-bell 


Look on the white Alps round ! 


Comes o'er them with a gladdening sound, 


If yet they gird a land 


Think on the battle-dell ! 


Where Freedom's voice and step are found, 


For blood first bathed its flowery sod, 


Forget ye not the band, — 


That chainless hearts might worship God ! 


1 The point of rock on which Tell leaped from the boat of 


2 Crowned Helmets, as a distinction of rank, are mentioned 


Gessler is marked by a chapel, and called the Tellensprung. 


in Simond's Switzerland. 




3 The Kiihreihen— the celebrated Ranz des Vaches. 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



343 



THE MESSENGER BIRD. 

[Some of the native Brazilians pay great veneration to a 
certain bird that sings mournfully in the night-time. They 
say it is a messenger which their deceased friends and rela- 
tions have sent, and that it brings them news from the other 
world.— See Picart's Ceremonies and Religious Customs.'] 

Thou art come from the spirits' land, thou bird ! 

Thou art come from the spirits' land : 
Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be heard, 

And tell of the shadowy band ! 

We know that the bowers are green and fair 
In the light of that summer shore ; 

And we know that the friends we have lost are there, 
They are there — and they weep no more ! 

And we know they have quench'd their fever's 
thirst 

From the fountain of youth ere now, 1 
For there must the stream in its freshness burst 

Which none may find below ! 

And we know that they will not be lured to earth 
From the land of deathless flowers, 

By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth, 
Though their hearts were once with ours : 

Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze, 

And bent with us the bow, 
And heard the tales of our fathers' days, 

Which are told to others now ! 

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain ! 

Can those who have loved forget % 
We call — and they answer not again : 

Do they love — do they love us yet 1 

1 An expedition was actually undertaken by Juan Ponce 
de Leon, in the 16th century, with a view of discovering a 
wonderful fountain, believed by the natives of Puerto Rico 
to spring in one of the Lucayo Isles, and to possess the virtue 
of restoring youth to all who bathed in its waters. — See 
Robertson's History of America. 

2 ANSWER TO "THE MESSENGER BIRD." 

BY AN AMERICAN QUAKER LADY. 

Yes ! I came from the spirits' land, 

From the land that is bright and fair ; 

I came with a voice from the shadowy band, 
To tell that they love you there. 

To say, if a wish or a vain regret 

Could live in Elysian bowers, 
'Twould be for the friends they can ne'er forget, 

The beloved of their youthful hours. 



Doth the warrior think of his brother there, 

And the father of his child 1 
And the chief of those that were wont to share 

His wandering through the wild 1 

We call them far through the silent night, 
And they speak not from cave or hill ; 

We know, thou bird ! that their land is bright, 
But say, do they love there still 1 2 



THE STRANGER IN LOUISIANA. 

[An early traveller mentions people on the banks of the 
Mississippi who burst into tears at the sight of a stranger. 
The reason of this is, that they fancy their deceased friends 
and relations to be only gone on a journey, and, being in con- 
stant expectation of their return, look for them vainly amongst 
these foreign travellers. — Picart's Ceremonies and Religious 
Customs. 

" J'ai passe" moi-meme," says Chateaubriand in his Souve- 
nirs d'Amcrique, " chez une peuplade Indienne qui se prenait 
a pleurer a la vue d'un voyageur, parce qu'il lui rappelait des 
amis partis pour la Contr^e des Ames, et depuis long-tems 
en voyage."'] 

We saw thee, stranger ! and wept. 
We look'd for the youth of the sunny glance 
Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance ; 
The light of his eye was a joy to see, 
The path of his arrows a storm to flee. 
But there came a voice from a distant shore — 
He was call'd — he is found midst his tribe no more : 
He is not in his place when the night-fires burn, 
But we look for him still — he will yet return ! 
His brother sat with a drooping brow 
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough : 
We roused him — we bade him no longer pine, 
For we heard a step — but the step was thine ! 

To whisper the dear deserted band, 

Who smiled on their tarriance here, 
That a faithful guard in the dreamless land 

Are the friends they have loved so dear. 

'Tis true, in the silent night you call, 

And they answer you not again ; 
But the spirits of bliss are voiceless all — 

Sound only was made for pain. 

That their land is bright and they weep no more, 

I have warbled from hill to hill ; 
But my plaintive strain should have told before, 

That they love, oh ! they love you still. 

They bid me say that unfading flowers 

You '11 find in the path they trode ; 
And a welcome true to their deathless bowers, 

Pronounced by the voice of God. 1827. 



344 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



We saw thee, stranger ! and wept. 
We look'd for the maid of the mournful song — 
Mournful, though sweet, — she hath left us long : 
We told her the youth of her love was gone, 
And she went forth to seek him — she pass'd alone. 
We hear not her voice when the woods are still, 
From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill. 
The joy of her sire with her smile is fled, 
The winter is white on his lonely head : 
He hath none by his side when the wilds we track, 
He hath none when we rest — yet she comes not 

back ! 
We look'd for her eye on the feast to shine, 
For her breezy step — but the step was thine ! 

We saw thee, stranger ! and wept. 
We look'd for the chief, who hath left the spear 
And the bow of his battles forgotten here : 
We look'd for the hunter, whose bride's lament 
On the wind of the forest at eve is sent : 
We look'd for the first-born, whose mother's cry 
Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky ! — 
Where are they] Thou'rt seeking some distant coast: 
Oh ask of them, stranger ! — send back the lost ! 
Tell them we mourn by the dark-blue streams, 
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams ! 
Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine, 
And to watch for a step — but the step was thine ! 



THE ISLE OF FOUNTS; 

AN INDIAN TKADITION. 

[" The river St Mary has its source from a vast lake or 
marsh, which lies between Flint and Oakmulge rivers, and 
occupies a space of near three hundred miles in circuit. This 
vast accumulation of waters, in the wet season, appears as a 
lake, and contains some large islands or knolls of rich high 
land ; one of which the present generation of the Creek In- 
dians represent to be a most blissful spot of earth. They say it 
is inhabited by a peculiar race of Indians, whose women are 
incomparably beautiful. They also tell you that this terres- 
trial paradise has been seen by some of their enterprising 
hunters, when in pursuit of game ; but that in their endea- 
vours to approach it, they were involved in perpetual laby- 
rinths, and, like enchanted land, still as they imagined they 
had just gained it, it seemed to fly before them, alternately 
appearing and disappearing. They resolved, at length, to 
leave the delusive pursuit, and to return ; which, after a num- 
ber of difficulties, they effected. When they reported their 
adventures to their countrymen, the young warriors were 
inflamed with an irresistible desire to invade and make a con- 
quest of so charming a country ; but all their attempts have 
hitherto proved abortive, never having been able again to find 
that enchanting spot. "—Bertram's Travels through North 
and South Carolina, %c. 

The additional circumstances in the " Isle of Founts" are 
merely imaginary.] 



Son of the stranger ! wouldst thou take 

O'er yon blue hills thy lonely way, 
To reach the still and shining lake 

Along whose banks the west winds play? 
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile — 
Oh ! seek thou not the Fountain Isle ! 

Lull but the mighty serpent-king, 1 

Midst the gray rocks, his old domain ; 
Ward but the cougar's deadly spring, — 
Thy step that lake's green shore may gain ; 
And the bright Isle, when all is pass'd, 
Shall vainly meet thine eye at last ! 

Yes ! there, with all its rainbow streams, 

Clear as within thine arrow's flight, 
The Isle of Founts, the isle of dreams, 
Floats on the wave in golden light ; 
And lovely will the shadows be 
Of groves whose fruit is not for thee ! 

And breathings from their sunny flowers, 

Which are not of the things that die, 
And singing voices from their bowers, 
Shall greet thee in the purple sky ; 
Soft voices, e'en like those that dwell 
Far in the green reed's hollow cell. 

Or hast thou heard the sounds that rise 

From the deep chambers of the earth ] 
The wild and wondrous melodies 

To which the ancient rocks gave birth I 1 
Like that sweet song of hidden caves 
Shall swell those wood-notes o'er the waves. 

The emerald waves ! — they take their hue 

And image from that sunbright shore ; 
But wouldst thou launch thy light canoe, 
And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar, — 
Before thee, hadst thou morning's speed, 
The dreamy land should still recede ! 

Yet on the breeze thou still wouldst hear 
The music of its flowering shades, 

1 The Cherokees believe that the recesses of their moun- 
tains, overgrown with lofty pines and cedars, and covered 
with old mossy rocks, are inhabited by the kings or chiefs of 
rattlesnakes, whom they denominate the " bright old inhabi- 
tants." They represent them as snakes of an enormous size, 
and which possess the power of drawing to them every living 
creature that comes within the reach of their eyes. Their 
heads are said to be crowned with a carbuncle of dazzling 
brightness. — See Notes to Leyden's Scenes of Infancy. 

2 The stones on the banks of the Oronoco, called by the 
South American missionaries Laxas de Musica, and alluded 
to in a former note. 







LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 345 


And ever should the sound be near 


There was heard the sound of a coming foe, 


Of founts that ripple through its glades ; 


There was sent through Britain a bended bow ; 


The sound, and sight, and flashing ray 


And a voice was pour'd on the free winds far, 


Of joyous waters in their play ! 


As the land rose up at the sign of war. 


But woe for him who sees them burst 


" Heard you not the battle-horn 1 — 


With their bright spray-showers to the lake ! 


Beaper ! leave thy golden corn : 


Earth has no spring to quench the thirst 


Leave it for the birds of heaven — 


That semblance in his soul shall wake, 


Swords must flash and spears be riven ! 


For ever pouring through his dreams 


Leave it for the winds to shed — 


The gush of those untasted streams ! 


Arm ! ere Britain's turf grow red." 


Bright, bright in many a rocky urn, 


And the reaper arm'd, like a freeman's son ; 


The waters of our deserts lie, 


And the bended bow and the voice pass'd on. 


Yet at their source his lip shall burn, 




Parch'd with the fever's agony ! 


" Hunter ! leave the mountain-chase, 


From the blue mountains to the main, 


Take the falchion from its place ; 


Our thousand floods may roll in vain. 


Let the wolf go free to-day, 




Leave him for a nobler prey ; 


E'en thus our hunters came of yore 


Let the deer ungall'd sweep by — 


Back from their long and weary quest ; — 


Arm thee ! Britain's foes are nigh." 


Had they not seen th' untrodden shore'? 




And could they midst our wilds find rest 1 


And the hunter arm'd ere the chase was done ; 


The lightning of their glance was fled, 


And the bended bow and the voice pass'd on. 


They dwelt amongst us as the dead ! 






" Chieftain ! quit the joyous feast — 


They lay beside our glittering rills 


Stay not till the song hath ceased : 


With visions in their darken' d eye ; 


Though the mead be foaming bright, 


Their joy was not amidst the hills 


Though the fires give ruddy light, 


Where elk and deer before us fly : 


Leave the hearth, and leave the hall — 


Their spears upon the cedar hung, 


Arm thee ! Britain's foes must fall." 


Their javelins to the wind were flung. 






And the chieftain arm'd, and the horn was blown; 


They bent no more the forest bow, 


And the bended bow and the voice pass'd on. 


They arm'd not with the warrior band, 




The moOns waned o'er them dim and slow — 


" Prince ! thy father's deeds are told 


They left us for the spirits' land ! 


In the bower and in the hold, 


Beneath our pines yon greensward heap 


Where the goatherd's lay is sung, 


Shows where the restless found their sleep. 


Where the minstrel's harp is strung ! 




Foes are on thy native sea — 


Son of the stranger ! if at eve 


Give our bards a tale of thee ! " 


Silence be midst us in thy place, 




Yet go not where the mighty leave 


And the prince came arm'd, like a leader's son ; 


The strength of battle and of chase ! 


And the bended bow and the voice pass'd on. 


Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile — 




Oh ! seek thou not the Fountain Isle ! 


" Mother ! stay thou not thy boy, 




He must learn the battle's joy : 




Sister ! bring the sword and spear, 


THE BENDED BOW. 


Give thy brother words of cheer : 




Maiden ! bid thy lover part : 


[It is supposed that war was anciently proclaimed in Bri- 


Britain calls the strong in heart ! " 


tain by sending messengers in different directions through 




the land, each bearing a bended bow ,• and that peace was in 




like manner announced by a bow unstrung, and therefore 


And the bended bow and the voice pass'd on ; 


straight.— See the Cambrian Antiquities.'] 


And the bards made song for a battle won. 



346 LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 


HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN. 


Where a king lay stately on his bier 




In the church of Fontevraud. 


[It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death of 


Banners of battle o'er him hung, 


his son, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the 


And warriors slept beneath ; 


coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile.] 


And light, as noon's broad light, was flung 


The bark that held a prince went down, 


On the settled face of death. 


The sweeping waves roll'd on ; 




And what was England's glorious crown 


On the settled face of death 


To him that wept a son 1 


A strong and ruddy glare, 


He lived — for life may long be borne 


Though dimm'd at times by the censer's breath, 


Ere sorrow break its chain ; 


Yet it fell still brightest there : 


Why comes not death to those who mourn 1 


As if each deeply furrow'd trace 


He never smiled again ! 


Of earthly years to show. 




Alas ! that sceptred mortal's race 


There stood proud forms around his throne, 


Had surely closed in woe ! 


The stately and the brave ; 




But which could fill the place of one, 


The marble floor was swept 


That one beneath the wave ? 


By many a long dark stole, 


Before him pass'd the young and fair, 


As the kneeling priests round him that slept 


In pleasure's reckless train ; 


Sang mass for the parted soul : 


But seas dash'd o'er his son's bright hair — 


And solemn were the strains they pour'd 


He never smiled again ! 


Through the stillness of the night, 




With the cross above, and the crown and sword, 


He sat where festal bowls went round, 


And the silent king in sight. 


He heard the minstrel sing, 




He saw the tourney's victor crown'd 


There was heard a heavy clang, 


Amidst the knightly ring : 


As of steel-girt men the tread, 


A murmur of the restless deep 


And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang 


"Was blent with every strain, 


With a sounding thrill of dread ; 


A voice of winds that would not sleep — 


And the holy chant was hush'd awhile, 


He never smiled again ! 


As, by the torch's flame, 




A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle 


Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace 


With a mail-clad leader came. 


Of vows once fondly pour'd, 




And strangers took the kinsman's place 


He came with haughty look, 


At many a joyous board ; 


An eagle-glance and clear ; 


Graves, which true love had bathed with tears, 


But his proud heart through its breastplate shook 


Were left to heaven's bright rain, 


When he stood beside the bier ! 


Fresh hopes were born for other years — 


He stood there still with a drooping brow, 


He never smiled again ! 


And clasp'd hands o'er it raised ; 




For his father lay before him low — 





It was Cceur-de-Lion gazed ! 


CCEUR-DE-LION AT THE BIER OF HIS 


And silently he strove 


FATHER. 


With the workings of his breast ; 




But there's more in late repentant love 


[The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the abbey- 


Than steel may keep suppress'd ! 


church of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Cceur- 


And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain, — 


de-Lion, who, on beholding it, was struck with horror and 


Men held their breath in awe ; 


remorse, and bitterly reproached himself for that rebellious 


For his face was seen by his warrior train, 


conduct which had been the means of bringing his father to 




an untimely grave.] 


And he reck'd not that they saw. 


Torches were blazing clear, 


He look'd upon the dead — 


Hymns pealing deep and slow, 


And sorrow seem'd to he, 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 347 


A weight of sorrow, even like lead, 




Pale on the fast-shut eye. 


THE VASSAL'S LAMENT FOR THE 


He stoop'd — and kiss'd the frozen cheek, 


FALLEN TREE. 


And the heavy hand of clay ; 




Till bursting words — yet all too weak — 


[" Here (at Brereton in Cheshire) is one thing incredibly 


Gave his soul's passion way. 


strange, but attested, as I myself have heard, by many 




persons, and commonly believed. Before any heir of this 




family dies, there are seen, in a lake adjoining, the bodies 


" father ! is it vain, 


of trees swimming on the water for several days." — Cam- 


This late remorse and deep ? 


den's Britannia.'] 


Speak to me, father ! once again : 




I weep — behold, I weep ! 


Yes ! I have seen the ancient oak 


Alas ! my guilty pride and ire ! — 


On the dark deep water cast, 


Were but this work undone, 


And it was not fell'd by the woodman's stroke, 


I would give England's crown, my sire ! 


Or the rush of the sweeping blast; 


To hear thee bless thy son. 


For the axe might never touch that tree, 




And the air was still as a summer sea. 


" Speak to me ! Mighty grief 




Ere now the dust hath stirr'd ! 


I saw it fall, as falls a chief 


Hear me, but hear me ! — father, chief, 


By an arrow in the fight, 


My king ! I must be heard ! 


And the old woods shook, to their loftiest leaf, 


Hush'd, hush'd — how is it that I call, 


At the crashing of its might ; 


And that thou answerest not 1 


And the startled deer to their coverts drew, 


When was it thus ? Woe, woe for all 


And the spray of the lake as a fountain's flew ! 


The love my soul forgot ! 






'Tis fallen ! But think thou not I weep 


" Thy silver hairs I see, 


For the forest's pride o'erthrown — 


So still, so sadly bright ! 


An old man's tears lie far too deep 


And father, father ! but for me, 


To be pour'd for this alone ; 


They had not been so white ! 


But by that sign too well I know 


I bore thee down, high heart ! at last : 


That a youthful head must soon be low ! 


No longer couldst thou strive. 




Oh ! for one moment of the past, 


A youthful head, with its shining hair, 


To kneel and say — ' forgive !' 


And its bright quick-flashing eye ; 




Well may I weep ! for the boy is fair, 


" Thou wert the noblest king 


Too fair a thing to die ! 


On royal throne e'er seen; 


But on his brow the mark is set — 


And thou didst wear in knightly ring, 


Oh ! could my life redeem him yet ! 


Of all, the stateliest mien ; 




And thou didst prove, where spears are proved, 


He bounded by me as I gazed 


In war, the bravest heart : 


Alone on the fatal sign, 


Oh ! ever the renown'd and loved 


And it seem'd like sunshine when he raised 


Thou wert — and there thou art ! 


His joyous glance to mine. 




With a stag's fleet step he bounded by, 


" Thou that my boyhood's guide 


So full of life — but he must die ! 


Didst take fond joy to be ! — 




The times I've sported at thy side, 


He must, he must ! in that deep dell, 


And climb'd thy parent knee ! 


By that dark water's side, 


And there before the blessed shrine, 


'Tis known that ne'er a proud tree fell 


My sire ! I see thee lie, — 


But an heir of his fathers died. 


How will that sad still face of thine 


And he — there's laughter in his eye, 


Look on me till I die !" 


Joy in his voice — yet he must die ! 


. . 


I've borne him in these arms, that now 




Are nerveless and unstrung ; 



348 LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 


And must I see, on that fair brow, 


And a sudden pause came o'er the swell 


The dust untimely flung ? 


Of the harp's triumphal chord ; 


I must ! — yon green oak, branch and crest, 


And the Minnesinger's 1 thrilling lay 


Lies floating on the dark lake's breast ! 


In the hall died fast away. 


The noble boy ! — how proudly sprung 


The convent's chanted rite was stay'd, 


The falcon from his hand ! 


And the hermit dropp'd his beads, 


It seem'd like youth to see Mm young, 


And a trembling ran through the forest-shade, 


A flower in his father's land ! 


At the neigh of the phantom steeds, 


But the hour of the knell and the dirge is nigh, 


And the church-bells peal'd to the rocking blast 


For the tree hath fallen, and the flower must die. 


As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass'd. 


Say not 'tis vain ! I tell thee, some 


The storm hath swept with the chase away, 


Are warn'd by a meteor's light, 


There is stillness in the sky ; 


Or a pale bird, flitting, calls them home, 


But the mother looks on her son to-day 


Or a voice on the winds by night; 


With a troubled heart and eye, 


And they must go ! And he too, he !■ - 


And the maiden's brow hath a shade of care 


Woe for the fall of the glorious Tree ! 


Midst the gleam of her golden hair ! 




The Rhine flows bright ; but its waves ere long 




Must hear a voice of war, 


THE WILD HUNTSMAN". 


And a clash of spears our hills among, 




And a trumpet from afar ; 


[It is a popular belief in the Odenwald, that the passing of 


And the brave on a bloody turf must lie — 


the Wild Huntsman announces the approach of war. He 


For the Huntsman hath gone by ! 


is supposed to issue with his train from the ruined castle 




of Rodenstein, and traverse the air to the opposite castle 




of Schnellerts. It is confidently asserted, that the sound 




of his phantom horses and hounds was heard by the Duke 




of Baden before the commencement of the last war in 


BRANDENBURG HARVEST-SONG. 2 


Germany.] 






FROM THE GERMAN OF LA MOTTE FOUQUE. 


Thy rest was deep at the slumberer's hour, 




If thou didst not hear the blast 


The corn in golden light 


Of the savage horn from the mountain-tower, 


Waves o'er the plain ; 


As the Wild Night-Huntsman pass'd, 


The sickle's gleam is bright ; 


And the roar of the stormy chase went by 


Full swells the grain. 


Through the dark unquiet sky ! 






Now send we far around 


The stag sprang up from his mossy bed 


Our harvest lay ! — 


When he caught the piercing sounds, 


Alas ! a heavier sound 


And the oak-boughs crash'd to his antler'd head, 


Comes o'er the day ! 


As he flew from the viewless hounds ; 




And the falcon soar'd from her craggy height, 


Earth shrouds with burial sod 


Away through the rushing night ! 


Her soft eyes blue, — 




Now o'er the gifts of God 


The banner shook on its ancient hold, 


Fall tears like dew ! 


And the pine in its desert place, 




As the cloud and tempest onward roll'd 


On every breeze a knell 


With the din of the trampling race ; 


The hamlets pour : 


And the glens were fill'd with the laugh and shout, 


We know its cause too well — 


And the bugle, ringing out ! 


She is no more ! 


From the chieftain's hand the wine-cup fell, 


1 Minnesinger, love-singer — the wandering minstrels of 
Germany were so called in the middle ages. 


At the castle's festive board, 


2 For the year of the Queen of Prussia's death. 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 349 


THE SHADE OF THESEUS. 


ANCIENT GREEK SONG OF EXILE. 


AN ANCIENT GREEK TRADITION. 


Where is the summer with her golden sun 1 — 


Know ye not when our dead 


That festal glory hath not pass'd from earth : 


From sleep to battle sprung ? — 


For me alone the laughing day is done ! 


When the Persian charger's tread 


Where is the summer with her voice of mirth 1 


On their covering greensward rung ; 


— Far in my own bright land 1 


When the trampling march of foes 




Had crush'd our vines and flowers, 


Where are the Fauns, whose flute-notes breathe 


When jewel'd crests arose 


and die 


Through the holy laurel bowers ; 


On the green hills 1 — the founts, from sparry 


When banners caught the breeze, 


caves 


When helms in sunlight shone, 


Through the wild places bearing melody ? — ■ 


When masts were on the seas, 


The reeds, low whispering o'er the river waves *? 


And spears on Marathon. 


— Far in my own bright land ! 


There was one, a leader crown'd, 


Where are the temples, through the dim wood 


And arm'd for Greece that day ; 


shining, 


But the falchions made no sound 


The virgin dances, and the choral strains 1 


On his gleaming war-array. 


Where the sweet sisters of my youth, entwining 


In the battle's front he stood, 


The spring's first roses for their sylvan fanes ? 


With his tall and shadowy crest ; 


— Far in my own bright land ! 


But the arrows drew no blood, 




Though their path was through his breast. 


Where are the vineyards, with their joyous throngs, 


When banners caught the breeze, 


The red grapes pressing when the foliage fades'? 


When helms in sunlight shone, 


The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian songs, 


When masts were on the seas, 


And the pine forests, and the olive shades 1 


And spears on Marathon. 


— Far in my own bright land ! 


His sword was seen to flash 


Where the deep haunted grots, the laurel bowers, 


Where the boldest deeds were done ; 


The Dryad's footsteps, and the minstrel's 


But it smote without a clash — 


dreams 1 — 


The stroke was heard by none ! 


Oh, that my life were as a southern flower's ! — 


His voice was not of those 


I might not languish then by these chill streams, 


That swell'd the rolling blast, 


Far from my own bright land ! 


And his steps fell hush'd like snows — 




'Twas the Shade of Theseus pass'd ! 





When banners caught the breeze, 




When helms in sunlight shone, 


GREEK FUNERAL CHANT, OR 


When masts were on the seas, 




And spears on Marathon. 


MYRIOLOGUE. 


Far sweeping through the foe, 


[" Les Chants Funebres par lesquels on deplore en Grece 


With a fiery charge he bore ; 


la mort de ses proches, prennent le nom particulier de Myri- 
ologia— comme qui dirait, Discours de lamentation, com- 


And the Mede left many a bow 


plaintes. Un malade vient-il de rendre le dernier soupir, sa 


On the sounding ocean-shore. 


femme, sa mere, ses filles, ses sceurs, celles, en un mot, de ses 


And the foaming waves grew red, 


plus proches parentes qui sont la, lui ferment les yeux et la 


And the sails were crowded fast, 


bouche, en ^panchant librement, chacune selon son na^urel 




et sa mesure de tendresse pour le deTunt, la douleur qu'elle 


When the sons of Asia fled, 


ressent de sa perte. Ce premier devoir rempli, elles se retirent 


As the Shade of Theseus pass'd ! 


toutes chez une de leurs parentes ou de leurs amies. La elles 


When banners caught the breeze, 


changent de vetemens. s'habillent de blanc, comme pour la 


When helms in sunlight shone, 
When masts were on the seas, 


c^r^monie nuptiale, avec cette difference, qu'elles gardent la 
tete nue, les cheveux epars et pendants. Ces apprets terminus, 
les parentes reviennent dans leur parure de deuil ; toutes se 


And spears on Marathon. 


rangent en cercle autour du mort, et leur douleur s'exhale de 



350 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



nouveau, et comme la premiere fois, sans regie et satis con- 
trainte. A ces plaintes spontanea succedent bientot des 
lamentations d'une autre espece : ce sont les Myriologues. 
Ordinairement c'est la plus proche parente qui prononce le 
sien la premiere ; apres elle les autres parentes, les amies, les 
simples voisines. Les Myriologues sont toujours composes et 
chanted par les femmes. lis sont toujours improvises, toujours 
en vers, et toujours chantes sur un air qui differe d'un lieu a 
un autre, mais qui, dans un lieu donne, reste invariablement 
consacre" a ce genre de poesie." — Chants Populaires de la 
Grece Modeme, par C. Fauriel.] 

A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed 

of the young — 
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful 

mother sung : — 
" Ianthis ! dost thou sleep 1 Thou sleep'st — but 

this is not the rest, 
The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pillow'd 

on my breast : 
I lull'd thee not to this repose, Ianthis ! my sweet 

son ! 
As, in thy glowing childhood's time, by twilight I 

have done. 
How is it that I bear to stand and look upon thee 

now 1 ? 
And that I die not, seeking death on thy pale 

glorious brow ] 

" I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair 

and brave ! 
I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the 

grave. 
Though mournfully thy smile is fix'd, and heavily 

thine eye 
Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it loved 

to lie ; 
And fast is bound the springing step, that seem'd 

on breezes borne, 
When to thy couch I came and said, — 'Wake, 

hunter, wake ! 'tis morn !' 
Yet art thou lovely still, my flower ! untouch'd 

by slow decay, — 
And I, the wither'd stem, remain. I would that 

grief might slay ! 

" Oh ! ever, when I met thy look, I knew that 

this would be ! 
I knew too well that length of days was not a gift 

* for thee ! 
I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing 

high ; — 
A voice came whispering to my soul, and told me 

thou must die ! 
That thou must die, my fearless one ! where 

swords were flashing red. — 



Why doth a mother live to say — My first-born and 

my dead ! 
They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of 

victory won : 
Speak thou, and I will hear, my child ! Ianthis ! 

my sweet son !" 

A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed 

of the young — 
A fair-hair'd bride the Funeral Chant amidst her 

weeping sung : — 
"Ianthis ! look'st thou not on me? Can love in- 
deed be fled ? [head ? 
When was it woe before to gaze upon thy stately 
I would that I had follow'd thee, Ianthis, my 

beloved ! 
And stood as woman oft hath stood where faithful 

hearts are proved ; 
That I had bound a breastplate on, and battled at 

thy side ! — 
It would have been a blessed thing together had 

we died ! 

" But where was I when thou didst fall beneath 

the fatal sword ) 
Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peace- 
ful board ? 
Or singing some sweet song of old, in the shadow 

of the vine, 
Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy 

shrine 1 
And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops 

from thy heart 
Fast gushing, like a mountain-spring ! And couldst 

thou thus depart 1 
Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy 

fleeting breath 1 — 
Oh ! I was with thee but in joy, that should have 

been in death ! 

" Yes ! I was with thee when the dance through 

mazy rings was led, 
And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and when 

the feast was spread ; 
But not where noble blood flow'd forth, where 

sounding javelins flew — 
Why did I hear love's first sweet words, and not 

its last adieu 1 ? 
What now can breathe of gladness more, — what 

scene, what hour, what tone 1 
The blue skies fade with all their lights; they 

fade, since thou art gone ! 
Even that must leave me, that still face, by all my 

tears unmoved : 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



351 



Take me from this dark world with thee, Ianthis ! 
my beloved !" 

A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed 

of the young — 
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful 

sister sung : — 
" Ianthis ! brother of my soul ! — oh ! where are 

now the days 
That laugh'd among the deep-green hills, on all 

our infant plays 1 
When we two sported by the streams, or track'd 

them to their source, 
And like a stag's, the rocks along, was thy fleet, 

fearless course ! — ■ 
I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills 

descend, 
But see thy bounding step no more — my brother 

and my friend ! 

" I come with flowers — for spring is come ! Ian- 
this ! art thou here ? 

I bring the garlands she hath brought, I cast them 
on thy bier. 

Thou shouldst be crown'd with victory's crown — 
but oh ! more meet they seem, 

The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the 
stream — 

More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid thus 
early low. 

Alas ! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sun- 
shine's glow — 

The golden glow that through thy heart was wont 
such joy to send : 

Woe! that it smiles, and not for thee! — my brother 
and my friend !" 



GREEK PARTING SONG. 

[This piece is founded on a tale related by Fauriel, in his 
" Chansons Populaires de la Grece Moderne," and accom- 
panied by some very interesting particulars respecting the 
extempore parting songs, or songs of expatriation, as he 
informs us they are called, in which the modern Greeks 
are accustomed to pour forth their feelings on bidding 
farewell to their country and friends.] 

A Youth went forth to exile, from a home 
Such as to early thought gives images, 
The longest treasured, and most oft recall'd, 
And brightest kept, of love ;— a mountain-home, 
That, with the murmur of its rocking pines, 



And sounding waters, first in childhood's heart 
Wakes the deep sense of nature unto joy, 
And half-unconscious prayer; — a Grecian home, 
With the transparence of blue skies o'erhung, 
And, through the dimness of its olive shades, 
Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam 
Of shining pillars from the fanes of old. 
And this was what he left ! Yet many leave 
Far more — the glistening eye, that first from theirs 
Call'd out the soul's bright smile ; the gentle hand, 
Which through the sunshine led forth infant steps 
To where the violets lay; the tender voice 
That earliest taught them what deep melody 
Lives in affection's tones. He left not these. 
Happy the weeper, that but weeps to part 
With all a mother's love ! A bitterer grief 
Was his — to part unloved! — of her unloved 
That should have breathed upon his heart like 

spring, 
Fostering its young faint flowers ! 

Yet had he friends, 
And they went forth to cheer him on his way 
Unto the parting spot; and she too went, 
That mother, tearless for her youngest-born. 
The parting spot was reach' d — a lone deep glen, 
Holy, perchance, of yore; for cave and fount 
Were there, and sweet- voiced echoes ; and above, 
The silence of the blue still upper heaven 
Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they wore 
Their crowning snows. Upon a rock he sprung, 
The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze 
Through the wild laurels back; but then a light 
Broke on the stern proud sadness of his eye, 
A sudden quivering light, and from his lips 
A burst of passionate song. 

" Farewell, farewell ! 
I hear thee, thou rushing stream! — thou'rt from 

my native dell, 
Thou'rt bearing thence a mournful sound — a mur- 
mur of farewell! 
And fare thee well — flow on, my stream ! — flow on, 

thou bright and free ! 
I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments 

for me ; 
But I have been a thing unloved from childhood's 

loving years, 
And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast 

known my tears ! 
The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret 

tears have known : 
The woods can tell where he hath wept, that ever 

wept alone ! 



352 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



" I see thee once again, my home ! thou 'rt there 

amidst thy vines, 
And clear upon thy gleaming roof the light of 

summer shines. 
It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering 

through thy groves — 
The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour 

the mother loves. 
The hour the mother loves ! — for me beloved it hath 

not been ; 
Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smilest, a blessed 

scene ! 
Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through distant 

years will come — 
Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, 

my home 1 

" Not as the dead ! — no, not the dead ! We speak 

of them — we keep 
TJieir names, like light that must not fade, within 

our bosoms deep : 
We hallow even the lyre they touch'd, we love 

the lay they sung, 
We pass with softer step the place they fill'd our 

band among ! 
But I depart like sound, like dew, like aught that 

leaves on earth [birth ! 

No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its 
I go ! — the echo of the rock a thousand songs 

may swell 
When mine is a forgotten voice. Woods, moun- 
tains, home, farewell ! 

" And farewell, mother I I have borne in lonely 

silence long, 
But now the current of my soul grows passionate 

and strong ; 
And I will speak ! though but the wind that 

wanders through the sky, 
And but the dark, deep-rustling pines and rolling 

streams reply. 
Yes ! I will speak ! Within my breast, whate'er 

hath seem'd to be, 
There lay a hidden fount of love that would have 

gush'd for thee ! 
Brightly it would have gush'd — but thou, my 

mother ! thou hast thrown 
Back on the forests and the wilds, what should 

have been thine own ! 

"Then fare thee well ! I leave thee not in loneliness 

to pine, 
Since thou hast sons of statelier mien and fairer 

brow than mine. 



Forgive me that thou couldst not love ! — it may 

be that a tone 
Yet from my burning heart may pierce through 

thine, when I am gone ; 
And thou, perchance, mayst weep for him on 

whom thou ne'er hast smiled, 
And the grave give his birthright back to thy 

neglected child ! 
Might but my spirit then return, and midst its 

kindred dwell, 
And quench its thirst with love's free tears ! 'Tis 

all a dream — farewell ! " 

" Farewell ! " — the echo died with that deep word; 
Yet died not so the late repentant pang 
By the strain quicken'd in the mother's breast ! 
There had pass'd many changes o'er her brow, 
And cheek, and eye ; but into one bright flood 
Of tears at last all melted ; and she fell 
On the glad bosom of her child, and cried, 
" Return, return, my son ! " The echo caught 
A lovelier sound than song, and woke again, 
Murmuring, " Return, my son ! " 



THE SULIOTE MOTHER. 

[It is related, in a French life of Ali Pasha, that several of 
the Suliote women, on the advance of the Turkish troops into 
the mountain fastnesses, assembled on a lofty summit, and, 
after chanting a wild song, precipitated themselves, with 
their children, into the chasm below, to avoid becoming the 
slaves of the enemy.] 

She stood upon the loftiest peak, 

Amidst the clear blue sky ; 
A bitter smile was on her cheek, 

And a dark flash in her eye. 

" Dost thou see them, boy 1 — through the dusky 

pines 
Dost thou see where the foeman's armour shines ? 
Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror's 

crest ? 
My babe, that I cradled on my breast ! Tjoy? 

Wouldst thou spring from thy mother's arms with 
—That sight hath cost thee a father, boy ! " 

For in the rocky strait beneath, 

Lay Suliote sire and son : 
They had heap'd high the piles of death 

Before the pass was won. 

" They have cross'd the torrent, and on they come : 
Woe for the mountain hearth and home ! 



LAYS OF MANY LANDS. 



353 



There, where the hunter laid by his spear ; 
There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear, 
There, where I sang thee, fair babe ! to sleep, 
Naught but the blood-stain our trace shall keep !" 

And now the horn's loud blast was heard, 
And now the cymbal's clang, 

Till even the upper air was stirr'd, 
As cliff and hollow rang. 

"Hark ! they bring music, my joyous child ! 

What saith the trumpet to Suli's wild ] 

Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire, 

As if at a glance of thine armed sire 1 

Still ! — be thou still ! — there are brave men low : 

Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him now ! " 

But nearer came the clash of steel, 
And louder swell'd the horn, 

And farther yet the tambour's peal 
Through the dark pass was borne. 

" Hear'st thou the sound of their savage mirth? 
Boy ! thou wert free when I gave thee birth, — 
Free, and how cherish' d, my warrior's son ! 
He too hath bless'd thee, as I have done ! 
Ay, and unchain'd must his loved ones be — 
Freedom, young Suliote ! for thee and me ! " 

And from the arrowy peak she sprung, 
And fast the fair child bore : — 

A veil upon the wind was flung, 
A cry — and all was o'er ! 



THE FAREWELL TO THE DEAD. 

[The following piece is founded on a beautiful part of the 
Greek funeral service, in which relatives and friends are 
invited to embrace the deceased (whose face is uncovered) 
and to bid their final adieu. — See Christian Researches in the 
Mediterranean. ] 

" 'Tis hard to lay into the earth 
A countenance so benign ! a form that walk'd 
But yesterday so stately o'er the earth ! " Wilson. 

Come near ! Ere yet the dust 
Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow, 
Look on your brother ; and embrace him now, 

In still and solemn trust ! 



Come near ! — once more let kindred lips be press'd 
On his cold cheek ; then bear him to his rest ! 

Look yet on this young face ! 
What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone, 
Leave of its image, even where most it shone, 

Gladdening its hearth and race ] 
Dim grows the semblance on man's heart impress'd. 
Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest ! 

Ye weep, and it is well ! 
For tears befit earth's partings ! Yesterday, 
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay, 

And sunshine seem'd to dwell 
Where'er he moved — 'the welcome and the bless'd. 
Now gaze ! and bear the silent unto rest ! 

Look yet on him whose eye 
Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth. 
Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth, 

The beings born to die 1 — 
But not where death has power may love be bless'd. 
Come near ! and bear ye the beloved to rest ! 

How may the mother's heart 
Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again 1 
The spring's rich promise has been given in vain — 

The lovely must depart ! 
Is he not gone, our brightest and our best 1 
Come near ! and bear the early-call'd to rest ! 

Look on him ! Is he laid 
To slumber from the harvest or the chase ? — 
Too still and sad the smile upon his face ; 

Yet that, even that must fade : 
Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest. 
Come near ! and bear the mortal to his rest ! 

His voice of mirth hath ceased 
Amidst the vineyards ! there is left no place 
For him whose dust receives your vain embrace, 

At the gay bridal-feast ! 
Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast. 
Come near ! weep o'er him ! bear him to his rest. 

Yet mourn ye not as they 
Whose spirits' light is quench'd ! For him the past 
Is seal'd : he may not fall, he may not cast 

His birthright's hope away ! 
All is not here of our beloved and bless'd. 
Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest ! 



354 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



I GO, SWEET FRIENDS! 

I go, sweet friends ! yet think of me 

When spring's young voice awakes the flowers ; 
For we have wander'd far and free 

In those bright hours, the violet's hours. 

I go ; but when you pause to hear, 
From distant hills, the Sabbath-bell 

On summer-winds float silvery clear, 
Think on me then — I loved it well ! 

Forget me not around your hearth, 
When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze ; 

For dear hath been its evening mirth 
To me, sweet friends, in other days. 

And oh ! when music's voice is heard 

To melt in strains of parting woe, 
When hearts to love and grief are stirr'd, 

Think of me then ! — I go, I go ! 



ANGEL VISITS. 

" No more of talk where God or angel guest 
With man, as with his friend, familiar used 
To sit indulgent and with him partake 
Rural repast." Milton. 

Are ye for ever to your skies departed ? 

Oh ! will ye visit this dim world no more ? 
Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendour darted 

Through Eden's fresh and flowering shaded of 
yore ! 
Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot, 
And ye — our faded earth beholds you not. 

Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken, 
Man wander'd from his Paradise away ; 

Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken, 

Came down, high guests ! in many a later day, 

And with the patriarchs, under vine or oak, 

Midst noontide calm or hush of evening, spoke. 

From you, the veil of midnight darkness rending, 
Came the rich mysteries to the sleeper's eye, 

That saw your hosts ascending and descending 
On those bright steps between the earth and 



Trembling he woke, and bow'd o'er glory's trace, 
And worshipp'd awe-struck, in that fearful place. 



By Chebar's 1 brook ye pass'd, such radiance wearing 
As mortal vision might but ill endure ; 

Along the stream the living chariot bearing, 
With its high crystal arch, intensely pure ; 

And, the dread rushing of your wings that hour 

Was like the noise of waters in their power. 

But in the Olive Mount, by night appearing, 
Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was done. 

Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering, 
Fraught with the breath of God to aid his Son? 

— Haply of those that, on the moonlit plains, 

Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains. 

Yet one more task was Yours! your heavenly 
dwelling, 

Ye left, and by th' unseal'd sepulchral stone, 
In glorious raiment, sat ; the weepers telling, 

That He they sought had triumph'd and was gone. 
Now have ye left us for the brighter shore ; 
Your presence lights the lonely groves no more. 

But may ye not, unseen, around us hover, 

With gentle promptings and sweet influence yet. 

Though the fresh glory of those days be over, 
When, midst the palm-trees, man your footsteps 
met? 

Are ye not near when faith and hope rise high, 

When love, by strength, o'ermasters agony ? 

Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining, 
Yields up life's treasures unto Him who gave 1 

When martyi*s, all tilings for His sake resigning, 
Lead on the march of death, serenely brave ? 

Dreams ! But a deeper thought our souls may 
fill; 

One, One is near — a spirit holier still ! 



IVY SONG. 

WRITTEN ON RECEIVING SOME IVY-LEAVES GATHERED FROM 
THE RUINED CASTLE OF RHEINFELS, ON THE RHINE. 

Oh ! how could Fancy crown with thee 
In ancient days the God of Wine, 

And bid thee at the banquet be 
Companion of the vine 1 

1 Ezekiel, chap. x. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



355 



Thy home, wild plant ! is where each sound 

Of revelry hath long been o'er, 
Where song's full notes once peal'd around, 

But now are heard no more. 

The Eoman on his battle-plains, 

Where kings before his eagles bent, 
Entwined thee with exulting strains 

Around the victor's tent : 
Yet there, though fresh in glossy green, 

Triumphantly thy boughs might wave, 
Better thou lovest the silent scene 

Around the victor's grave. 

Where sleeps the sons of ages flown, 

The bards and heroes of the past ; 
Where, through the halls of glory gone, 

Murmurs the wintry blast ; 
Where years are hastening to efface 

Each record of the grand and fair ; 
Thou, in thy solitary grace, 

Wreath of the tomb ! art there. 

Oh ! many a temple, once sublime, 

Beneath a blue Italian sky, 
Hath naught of beauty left by time, 

Save thy wild tapestry ! 
And, rear'd midst crags and clouds, 'tis thine 

To wave where banners waved of yore, 
O'er towers that crest the noble Khine, 

Along his rocky shore. 

High from the fields of air look down 

Those eyries of a vanish'd race — 
Homes of the mighty, whose renown 

Hath pass'd, and left no trace. 
But there thou art ! — thy foliage bright 

Unchanged the mountain storm can brave ; 
Thou, that wilt climb the loftiest height, 

Or deck the humblest grave ! 

'Tis still the same ! Where'er we tread, 

The wrecks of human power we see — 
The marvels of all ages fled 

Left to decay and thee ! 
And still let man his fabrics rear, 

August in beauty, grace, and strength ; 
Days pass — thou ivy never sere ! 1 — 

And all is thine at length ! 

1 " Yemyrtles brown, and ivy never sere." — Lycidas. 



TO ONE OF THE AUTHOR'S CHILDREN 
ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 

Where sucks the bee now 1 Summer is flying, 
Leaves round the elm-tree faded are lying ; 
Violets are gone from their grassy dell, 
With the cowslip cups, where the fairies dwell ; 
The rose from the garden hath pass'd away — 
Yet happy, fair boy, is thy natal day ! 

For love bids it welcome, the love which hath smiled 
Ever around thee, my gentle child ! 
Watching thy footsteps, and guarding thy bed, 
And pouring out joy on thy sunny head. 
Roses may vanish, but this will stay — 
Happy and bright is thy natal day ! 



ON A SIMILAR OCCASION. 

Thou wakest from rosy sleep, to play 
With bounding heart, my boy ! 

Before thee lies a long bright day 
Of summer and of joy. 

Thou hast no heavy thought or dream 

To cloud thy fearless eye : 
Long be it thus ! — life's early stream 

Should still reflect the sky. 

Yet, ere the cares of life lie dim 

On thy young spirit's wings, 
Now in thy morn forget not Him 

From whom each pure thought springs. 

So, in the onward vale of tears, 

Where'er thy path may be, 
When strength hath bow'd to evil years, 

He will remember thee ! 



CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST. 

Fear was within the tossing bark 
When stormy winds grew loud, 

And waves came rolling high and dark, 
And the tall mast was bow'd. 

And men stood breathless in their dread, 

And baffled in their skill ; 
But One was there, who rose and said 

To the wild sea — Be still ! 



356 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And the wind ceased — it ceased ! that word 
Pass'd through the gloomy sky : 

The troubled billows knew their Lord, 
And fell beneath His eye. 

And slumber settled on the deep, 

And silence on the blast ; 
They sank, as flowers that fold to sleep 

When sultry day is past. 

Thou ! that in its wildest hour 
Didst rule the tempest's mood, * 

Send thy meek spirit forth in power, 
Soft on our souls to brood ! 

Thou that didst bow the billow's pride 

Thy mandate to fulfil ! 
Oh, speak to passion's raging tide, 

Speak, and say, "Peace, he still!" 



EPITAPH 

OVER THE GRAVE OF TWO BROTHERS, A CHILD 
AND A YOUTH. 

[Amongst the numerous friends Mrs Hemans was fortu- 
nate enough to possess in Scotland, there was one to whom 
she was linked by so peculiar a bond of union, and whose 
unwearied kindness is so precious an inheritance to her chil- 
dren, that it is hoped the owner of a name so dear to them, 
(though it be a part of her nature to shrink from publicity,) 
will forgive its being introduced into these pages. 

This invaluable friend was Lady Wedderburn,i the mother 
of those "two brothers, a child and a youth," for whose 
monument Mrs Hemans had written an inscription, which, 
with its simple pathos, has doubtless sunk deep into the heart 
of many a mourner, as well as of many a yet rejoicing parent, 
there called upon to remember that for them, too, 
" Speaks the grave, 
Where God hath seal'd the fount of hope He gave." 

Into the gentle heart, which has found relief for its own 
sorrows in soothing the griefs and promoting the enjoyments 
of others, the author of this sacred tribute was taken with a 
warmth and loving-kindness which extended its genial influ- 
ence to all belonging to her ; and during their stay in Edin- 
burgh, whither they proceeded from Abbotsford, Mrs Hemans 
and her children were cherished with a true home welcome 
at the house of Sir David Wedderburn.— Memoir, p. 192.] 

Thou, that canst gaze upon thine own fair boy, 
And hear his prayer's low murmur at thy knee, 

And o'er his slumber bend in breathless joy, 
Come to this tomb !— it hath a voice for thee ! 

1 The lady of Sir David Wedderburn, Bart., and sister of the late 
Viscountess Hampden. The monument on which the lines are in- 
scribed, is at Glynde, in Sussex, near Lord Hampden's seat. This ex- 
cellent lady only survived Mrs Hemans a few years. 



Pray ! Thou art blest — ask strength for sorrow's 

hour : 
Love, deep as thine, lays here its broken flower. 

Thou that art gathering from the smile of youth 
Thy thousand hopes, rejoicing to behold 

All the heart's depths before thee bright with truth, 
All the mind's treasures silently unfold, 

Look on this tomb ! — for thee, too, speaks the grave, 

Where God hath seal'd the fount of hope He gave. 



MONUMENTAL INSCRIPTION. 

Earth ! guard what here we lay in holy trust, 
That which hath left our home a darken'd place, 

Wanting the form, the smile, now veil'd with dust, 
The light departed with our loveliest face. 

Yet from thy bonds our sorrow's hope is free — 

We have but lent the beautiful to thee. 

But thou, heaven ! keep, keep what thou hast taken, 
And with our treasure keep our hearts on high ; 

The spirit meek, and yet by pain unshaken, 
The faith, the love, the lofty constancy — 

Guide us where these are with our sister flown : 

They were of Thee, and thou hast claim'd thine own ! 



THE SOUND OF THE SEA. 

Thou art sounding on, thou mighty sea ! 

For ever and the same; 
The ancient rocks yet ring to thee — 

Those thunders naught can tame. 

Oh ! many a glorious voice is gone 

From the rich bowers of earth, 
And hush'd is many a lovely one 

Of mournfulness or mirth. 

The Dorian flute that sigh'd of yore 

Along the wave, is still ; 
The harp of Judah peals no more 

On Zion's awful hill. 

And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord 

That breathed the mystic tone ; 
And the songs at Rome's high triumphs pour'd 

Are with her eagles flown. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



357 



And mute the Moorish horn that rang 
O'er stream and mountain free ; 

And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang 
Hath died in Galilee. 

But thou art swelling on, thou deep ! 

Through many an olden clime, 
Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep 

Until the close of time. 

Thou liftest up thy solemn voice 

To every wind and sky, 
And all our earth's green shores rejoice 

In that one harmony. 

It fills the noontide's calm profound, 

The sunset's heaven of gold ; 
And the still midnight hears the sound, 

Even as first it roll'd. 

Let there be silence, deep and strange, 

"Where sceptred cities rose ! 
Thou speak'st of One who doth not change 

So may our hearts repose. 



THE CHILD AND DOVE. 

SUGGESTED BY CHANTREY'S STATUE OF LADY LOUISA 
RUSSELL. 

Thou art n thing on our dreams to rise, 
Midst the echoes of long-lost melodies, 
And to fling bright dew from the morning back, 
Fair form ! on each image of childhood's track. 

Thou art a thing to recall the hours 
When the love of our souls was on leaves and flowers, 
When a world was ourowninsome dim sweet grove, 
And treasure untold in one captive dove. 

Are they gone ? can we think it, while thou art there, 
Thou joyous child with the clustering hair? 
Is it not spring that indeed breathes free 
And fresh o'er each thought, while we gaze on thee? 

No ! never more may we smile as thou 
Sheddest round smiles from thy sunny brow ; 
Yet something it is, in our hearts to shrine 
A memory of beauty undimm'd as thine — 

To have met the joy of thy speaking face, 
To have felt the spell of thy breezy grace, 



To have linger'd before thee, and turn'd, and borne 
One vision away of the cloudless morn. 



A DIRGE. 

[ The two first stanzas of this dirge may be found in the 
last scene of " The Siege of Valencia ;" but they are more par- 
ticularly worthy of the reader's consideration, as having been 
selected for inscription on the tablet placed above the vault 
beneath St Ann's Church, Dublin, where the remains of the 
author repose.] 

Calm on the bosom of thy God, 

Young spirit ! rest thee now ! 
Even while with us thy footstep trod, 

His seal was on thy brow. 

Dust, to its narrow house beneath ! 

Soul, to its place on high ! — 
They that have seen thy look in death, 

No more may fear to die. 

Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers, 
Whence thy meek smile is gone ; 

But oh !— a brighter home than ours, 
In heaven, is now thine own. 



SCENE IN A DALECARLIAN MINE. 

" Oh ! fondly, fervently, those two had loved, 
Had mingled minds in Love's own perfect trust; 
Had watch'd bright sunsets, dreamt of blissful years ; 
And thus they met i " 

" Haste, with your torches, haste ! make firelight 
round ! " — [found ? 

They speed, they press : what hath the miner 
Eelic or treasure — giant sword of old ? 
Gems bedded deep — rich veins of burning gold ? 
— Not so — the dead, the dead ! An awe-struck band 
In silence gathering round the silent stand, 
Chain'd by one feeling, hushing e'en their breath, 
Before the thing that, in the might of death, 
Fearful, yet beautiful, amidst them lay — 
A sleeper, dreaming not ! — a youth with hair 
Making a sunny gleam (how sadly fair ! ) 
O'er his cold brow : no shadow of decay [wore 
Had touch'd those pale, bright features — yet he 
A mien of other days, a garb of yore. 
Who could unfold that mystery? From the throng 
A woman wildly broke ; her eye was dim, 
As if through many tears, through vigils long, 
Through weary strainings : — all had been for him ! 



358 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Those two had loved ! And there he lay, the dead, 
In his youth's flower — and she, the living, stood 
With her gray hair, whence hue and gloss had fled — 
And wasted form, and cheek, whose flushing blood 
Had long since ebb'd — a meeting sad and strange ! 
— Oh ! are not meetings in this world of change 
Sadder than partings oft ! She stood there, still, 
And mute, and gazing — all her soul to fill 
With the loved face once more — the young, fair face, 
Midst that rude cavern, touch'd with sculpture's 

grace, 
By torchlight and by death : until at last 
From her deep heart the spirit of the past 
Gush'd in low broken tones : — "And there thou 

art ! 
And thus we meet, that loved, and did but part 
As for a few brief hours ! My friend, my friend ! 
First love, and only one ! Is this the end 
Of hope deferr'd, youth blighted ! Yet thy brow 
Still wears its own proud beauty, and thy cheek 
Smiles — how unchanged ! — while I, the worn, and 

weak, 
And faded — oh ! thou wouldst but scorn me now, 
If thou couldst look on me ! — a wither'd leaf, 
Sear'd — though for thy sake — by the blast of grief ! 
Better to see thee thus i For thou didst go 
Bearing my image on thy heart, I know, 
Unto the dead. My Ulric ! through the night 
How have I call'd thee ! With the morning light 
How have I watch'd for thee ! — wept, wander'd, 

pray'd, 
Met the fierce mountain-tempest, undismay'd, 
In search of thee ! — bound my worn life to one — 
One torturing hope ! Now let me die ! Tis gone. 
Take thy betrothed ! " And on his breast she fell, 
Oh ! since their youth's last passionate farewell, 
How changed in all but love ! — the true, the strong, 
Joining in death whom life had parted long ! 
They had one grave— one lonely bridal-bed, 
No friend, no kinsman there a tear to shed ! 
His name had ceased — her heart outlived each tie, 
Once more to look on that dead face, and die ! 



ENGLISH SOLDIER'S SONG OF MEMORY. 

TO THE AIR OF " AM RHEIN, AM RHEIN! " 

Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed, 

Let song and wine be pour'd ! 
Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted, 

Our brethren of the sword ! 



Oft at the feast, and in the fight, their voices 

Have mingled with our own ; 
Fill high the cup ! but when the soul rejoices, 

Forget not who are gone. 

They that stood with us, midst the dead and dying, 

On Albuera's plain ; 
They that beside us cheerily track'd the flying, 

Far o'er the hills of Spain ; 

They that amidst us, when the shells were showering 
From old Rodrigo's wall, [ing, 

The rampart scaled, through clouds of battle tower- 
First, first at Victory's call ; 

They that upheld the banners, proudly waving, 
In Roncesvalles' dell, [laving — 

With England's blood the southern vineyards 
Forget not how they fell ! 

Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed, 

Let song and wine be pour'd ! 
Pledge to their fame, the free and fearless hearted, 

Our brethren of the sword ! 



HAUNTED GROUND. 

" And slight, withal, may he the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
Aside for ever — it may be a sound, 
A tone of music, summer eve, or spring, 
A flower— the wind— the ocean — which shall wound, 

Striking the electric train, wherewith we are darkly bound." 

Byron 

Yes, it is haunted, this quiet scene, 
Fair as it looks, and all softly green ; 
Yet fear not thou — for the spell is thrown, 
And the might of the shadow, on me alone. 

Are thy thoughts wandering to elves and fays, 
And spirits that dwell where the water plays 1 
Oh ! in the heart there are stronger powers, 
That sway, though viewless, this world of ours ! 

Have I not lived midst these lonely dells, 
And loved, and sorrow'd, and heard farewells, 
And learn'd in my own deep soul to look, 
And tremble before that mysterious book 1 

Have I not, under these whispering leaves, 
Woven such dreams as the young heart weaves ? 
Shadows — yet unto which life seem'd bound ; 
And is it not — is it not haunted ground 1 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



159 



Must I not hear what thou hearest not, 
Troubling the air of the sunny spot ] 
Is there not something to rouse but me, 
Told by the rustling of every tree ? 

Song hath been here, with its flow of thought ; 
Love, with its passionate visions fraught ; 
Death, breathing stillness and sadness round; 
And is it not — is it not haunted ground ? 

Are there no phantoms, but such as come 

By night from the darkness that wraps the tomb'? 

A sound, a scent, or a whispering breeze, 

Can summon up mightier far than these ! 

But I may not linger amidst them here ! 
Lovely they are, and yet things to fear ; 
Passing and leaving a weight behind, 
And a thrill on the chords of the stricken mind. 

Away, away ! — that my soul may soar 

As a free bird of blue skies once more ! 

Here from its wing it may never cast [past. 

The chain by those spirits brought back from the 

Doubt it not — smile not — but go thou, too, 
Look on the scenes where thy childhood grew — 
Where thou hast pray'd at thy mother's knee, 
Where thou hast roved with thy brethren free ; 

Go thou, when life unto thee is changed, 
Friends thou hast loved as thy soul, estranged ; 
When from the idols thy heart hath made, 
Thou hast seen the colours of glory fade. 

Oh ! painfully then, by the wind's low sigh, 

By the voice of the stream, by the flower-cup's dye, 

By a thousand tokens of sight and sound, 

Thou wilt feel thou art treading on haunted ground. 



THE CHILD OF THE FOBESTS. 

WRITTEN AFTET? READING THE MEMOIRS OF 
JOHN HUNTER. 

[On one occasion, Mrs Hemans was somewhat ludi- 
crously disenchanted, through the medium of a North 
American Review, on the subject of a self-constituted hero, 
whose history (which suggested her little poem, " The Child of 
the Forests ") she had read with unquestioning faith and lively 
interest. This was the redoubtable John Dunn Hunter, 
whose marvellous adventures amongst the Indians — by whom 
he represented himself to have been carried away in childhood 



— were worked up into a plausible narrative, admirably cal- 
culated to excite the sympathies of its readers. But how far 
it was really deserving of them, may be judged by the follow- 
ing extract from a letter to a friend who had been similarly 
mystified:— "I send you a North American Review, which 
will mortify C. and you with the sad intelligence that John 
Hunter — even our own John Dunn — the man of the panther's 
skin — the adopted of the Kansas — the shooter with the rifle — 
no, with the long bow — is, I blush to say it, neither more nor 
less than an impostor; no better than Psalmanazar ; no, no 
better than Carraboo herself. After tins, what are we to 
believe again ? Are there any Loo Choo Islands ? Was 
there ever any Robinson Crusoe ? Is there any Rammohun 
Roy ? All one's faith and trust is shaken to its foundations. 
No one here sympathises with me properly on this annoying 
occasion ; but you, I think, will know how to feel, who have 
been quite as much devoted to that vile John Dunn as my- 
self." — Memoir, pp. 95-6.] 



Is not thy heart far off amidst the woods, 
Where the red Indian lays his father's dust, 

And, by the rushing of the torrent floods, 
To the Great Spirit bows in silent trust 1 

Doth not thy soul o'ersweep the foaming main, 

To pour itself upon the wilds again ] 

They are gone forth, the desert's warrior race, 
By stormy lakes to track the elk and roe ; 

But where art thou, the swift one in the chase, 
With thy free footstep and unfailing bow 1 

Their singing shafts have reach'd the panther's lair, 

And where art thou 1 — thine arrows are not there. 

They rest beside their streams — the spoil is won — 
They hang their spears upon the cypress bough ; 

The night-fires blaze, the hunter's work is done — 
They hear the tales of old — but where art thou? 

The night-fires blaze beneath the giant pine, 

And there a place is fill'd that once was thine. 

For thou art mingling with the city's throng, 
And thou hast thrown thine Indian bow aside; 

Child of the forests ! thou art borne along, 
E'en as ourselves, by life's tempestuous tide. 

But will this be 1 and canst thou here find rest ? 

Thou hadst thy nurture on the desert's breast. 

Comes not the sound of torrents to thine ear 
From the savannah land, the land of streams 1 

Hear'st thou not murmurs which none else may 
hear] 
Is not the forest's shadow on thy dreams 1 

They call — wild voices call thee o'er the main, 

Back to thy free and boundless woods again. 

Hear them not ! hear them not ! — thou canst not find 
In the far wilderness what once was thine ! 



360 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Thou hast quaff'd knowledge from the founts of 


And o'er the lonely Grecian streams 


mind, 


Thou hast heard the laurels moan, 


And gather'd loftier aims and hopes divine. 


With a sound yet murmuring in thy dreams 


Thou know'st the soaring thought, the immortal 


Of the glory that is gone. 


strain — 




Seek not the deserts and the woods again ! 


But go thou to the pastoral vales 




Of the Alpine mountains old, 


■ . 


If thou wouldst hear immortal tales 




By the wind's deep whispers told ! 


STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF * * * 






Go, if thou lovest the soil to tread 


In the full tide of melody and mirth, 


Where man hath nobly striven, 


While joy's bright spirit beams from every eye, 


And life, like incense, hath been shed, 


Forget not him, whose soul, though fled from earth, 


An offering unto heaven. 


Seems yet to speak in strains that cannot die. 






For o'er the snows, and round the pines, 


Forget him not, for many a festal hour, 


Hath swept a noble flood ; 


Charm'd by those strains,forus has lightly flown: 


The nurture of the peasant's vines 


And memory's visions, mingling with their power, 


Hath been the martyr's blood ! 


Wake the heart's thrill at each familiar tone. 






A spirit, stronger than the sword, 


Blest be the harmonist, whose well-known lays 


And loftier than despair, 


Revive life's morning dreams, when youth is fled, 


Through all the heroic region pour'd, 


And, fraught with images of other days, 


Breathes in the generous air. 


Recall the loved, the absent, and the dead. 






A memory clings to every steep 


His the dear art whose spells awhile renew 


Of long-enduring faith, 


Hope's first illusions in their tenderest bloom — 


And the sounding streams glad record keep 


Oh ! what were life, unless such moments threw 


Of courage unto death. 


Bright gleams, "like angel visits," o'er its gloom? 






Ask of the peasant where his sires 





For truth and freedom bled ? 




Ask, where were lit the torturing fires, 


THE VAUDQIS VALLEYS. 


Where lay the holy dead ! 


Yes ! thou hast met the sun's last smile 


And he will tell thee, all around, 


From the haunted hills of Rome ; 


On fount, and turf, and stone, 


By many a bright iEgean isle 


Far as the chamois' foot can bound, 


Thou hast seen the billows foam. 


Their ashes have been sown ! 


From the silence of the Pyramid, 


Go, when the Sabbath-bell is heard 1 


Thou hast watch'd the solemn flow 


Up through the wilds to float, 


Of the Nile, that with its waters hid 


When the dark old woods and caves are stiri'd 


The ancient realm below. 


To gladness by the note ; 


Thy heart hath burn'd, as shepherds sung 


When forth, along their thousand rills, 


Some wild and warlike strain, 


The mountain people come, 


Where the Moorish horn once proudly rung 


Join thou their worship on those hills 


Through the pealing hills of Spain. 


Of glorious martyrdom. 


1 See Gilly's Researches among the Mountains of Pied- 


and herds to the summit of the hills during the summer, 


mont, for an interesting account of a Sabbath-day among the 


are followed thither by their pastors, and at that season of 


upper regions of the Vaudois. The inhabitants of these Pro- 


the year assemble on that sacred day to worship in the 


testant valleys, who, like the Swiss, repair with their flocks 


open air. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 361 


And while the song of praise ascends, 


Not for the beauty spread over thy brow, 


And while the torrent's voice, 


Though round thee a gleam, as of spring, it throw; 


Like the swell of many an organ, blends, 


And not for the lustre that laughs from thine eye, 


Then let thy soul rejoice. 


Like a dark stream's flash to the sunny sky, 




Though the south in its riches naught lovelier 


Eejoice, that human hearts, through scorn, 


sees — 


Through shame, through death, made strong, 


Fair peasant ! I call thee not blest for these. 


Before the rocks and heavens have borne 




Witness of God so long ! 


But for those breathing and loving things — 




For the boy's fond arm that around thee clings, 


™ 


For the smiling cheek on thy lap that glows, 




In the peace of a trusting child's repose — 




For the hearts whose home is thy gentle breast, 


SONG OF THE SPANISH WANDERER 


Oh ! richly I call thee, and deeply blest ! 


Pilgrim ! oh say, hath thy cheek been fann'd 




By the sweet winds of my sunny land 1 




Know'st thou the sound of its mountain pines 1 




And hast thou rested beneath its vines ] 


TROUBADOUR SONG. 


Hast thou heard the music still wandering by, 


The warrior cross'd the ocean's foam 


A thing of the breezes, in Spain's blue sky, 


For the stormy fields of war ; 


Floating away o'er hill and heath, 


The maid was left in a smiling home 


With the myrtle's whisper, the citron's breath ?• 


And a sunny land afar. 


Then say, are there fairer vales than those 


His voice was heard where javelin showers 


Where the warbling of fountains for ever flows ] 


Pour'd on the steel-clad line ; 


Are there brighter flowers than mine own, which 


Her step was midst the summer flowers, 


wave 


Her seat beneath the vine. 


O'er Moorish ruin and Christian grave ! 






His shield was cleft, his lance was riven, 


sunshine and song ! they are lying far 


And the red blood stain'd his crest ; 


By the streams that look to the western star ; 


While she — the gentlest wind of heaven 


My heart is fainting to hear once more 


Might scarcely fan her breast ! 


The water-voices of that sweet shore. 






Yet a thousand arrows pass'd him by, 


Many were they that have died for thee, 


And again he cross'd the seas ; 


And brave, my Spain ! though thou arb not free ; 


But she had died as roses die 


But I call them blest — they have rent their chain — 


That perish with a breeze — 


They sleep in thy valleys, my sunny Spain ! 






As roses die, when the blast is come 




For all things bright and fair : 




There was death within the smiling home — 




How had death found her there 1 


THE CONTADINA. 




WRITTEN FOR A PICTURE. 





Not for the myrtle, and not for the vine, 


/ 


Though its grape, like a gem, be the sunbeam's 


THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. 1 


shrine; 




And not for the rich blue heaven that showers 


What hidest thou in thy treasure caves and cells, 


Joy on thy spirit, like light on the flowers ; 


Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main? — 


And not for the scent of the citron trees — 




Fair peasant ! I call thee not blest for these. 


1 Originally introduced in the " Forest Sanctuary " 



362 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colour'd shells 
Bright things which gleam unreck'd of, and in 
vain. 
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea ! 
We ask not such from thee. 

Yet more, the depths have more ! What wealth 
untold, [lies ! 

Far down, and shining through their stillness 
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, 
Won from ten thousand royal Argosies. — 
Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main ! 
Earth claims not these again. 

Yet more, the depths have more ! Thy waves 
have roll'd 
Above the cities of a world gone by ! 
Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old, 

Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry. — 
Dash o'er them, ocean ! in thy scornful play : 
Man yields them to decay. 

Yet more ! the billows and the depths have more ! 

High hearts and brave are gather'd to thy breast ! 
They hear not now the booming waters roar, 

The battle-thunders will not break their rest. — 
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave ! 
Give back the true and brave ! 

Give back the lost and lovely ! — those for whom 

The place was kept at board and hearth so long, 

The prayer went up through midnight's breathless 

gloom, 

And the vain yearning woke midst festal song ! 

Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown — 

But all is not thine own. 

To thee the love of woman hath gone down, 

Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, 

O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery 

crown : 

Yet must thou hear a voice — Restore the dead ! 

Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee ! — 

Restore the dead, thou sea ! 

[" The only public mention that I have made of Mrs 
Hemans," says Mi- Montgomery of Sheffield, in a letter re- 
garding her, with which we have been favoured by that 
excellent man and distinguished poet, "was in a series of 
lectures on the principal British Poets, delivered at the Royal 
Institution from ten to twelve years ago. In one of these, 
having to notice very briefly the ' Female Poets,' I said, 
' Mrs Hemans, in many of her lyrics, has struck out a new 
and attractive style of mingling the picturesque and the sen- 
timental with such grace and beauty that, in her best pieces, 
she is better than almost any poet of either sex in that 



sprightly, yet pathetic vein, which she has exercised.' 1 gave 
' The Treasures of the Deep ' as an example ; and, indeed, I 
know nothing in our language — of the kind and the character 
I mean — comparable with it, either in conception or execu- 
tion, for wealth of thought, felicity of diction, and com- 
manding address : — The Ocean summoned to give an account 
of all that it has been doing through six thousand years, and 
the answers dictated by the questioner, till all the secrets of 
the abyss are revealed in the light by which poetry alone, of 
the purest order, can discover them. The last stanza is a 
crown of glory to the perfect whole." 

We beg to remind the author of " The World before the 
Flood," and " The Pelican Island," that the lectures to which 
he alludes have never been published. They were flatteringly 
successful, both when delivered at the Royal Institution, and 
before the literary societies of several of the principal provin- 
cial towns of England ; and could not fail being acceptable 
to the great reading public, as the recorded opinions concern- 
ing the leading poets of Great Britain of past and present 
times, deliberately formed by one of their own number, who 
has himself written so much and so well, and who, in popu- 
larity as a lyrist, has no superior among contemporaries.] 



BRING FLOWERS. 

Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, 
To wreath the cup ere the wine is pour'd ! 
Bring flowers ! they are springing in wood and 

vale: 
Their breath floats out on the southern gale, 
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose, 
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. 

Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path ! 
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath : 
He comes with the spoils of nations back, 
The vines lie crush'd in his chariot's track, 
The turf looks red where he won the day. 
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way ! 

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell ! 
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell — 
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky, 
And the bright world shut from his languid eye ; 
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours, 
And the dream of his youth. Bring him flowers, 
wild flowers ! 

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear ! 
They were born to blush in her shining hair. 
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth, 
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth, 
Her place is now by another's side. 
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



363 



Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed, 

A crown for the brow of the early dead ! 

For this through its leaves hath the white rose 

burst, 
For this in the woods was the violet nursed ! 
Though they smile in vain for what once was ours, 
They are love's last gift. Bring ye flowers, pale 

flowers ! 

Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in 

prayer — 
They are nature's offering, their place is there ! 
They speak of hope to the fainting heart, 
With a voice of promise they come and part, 
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours, 
They break forth in glory. Bring flowers, bright 

flowers ! 



THE CRUSADER'S RETURN. 



Alas ! the mother that him bare, 
If she had been in presence there, 
In his wan cheeks and sunburnt hair 
She had not known her child. 



Rest, pilgrim, rest ! Thou'rt from the Syrian land, 

Thou'rt from the wild and wondrous East, I know 
By the long-wither'd palm-branch in thy hand, 

And by the darkness of thy sunburnt brow. 
Alas ! the bright, the beautiful, who part 

So full of hope, for that far country's bourne ! 
Alas ! the weary and the changed in heart, 

And dimm'd in aspect, who like thee return ! 

Thou'rt faint — stay, rest thee from thy toils at last : 

Through the high chestnuts lightly plays the 
breeze, 
The stars gleam out, the Ave hour is past, 

The sailor's hymn hath died along the seas. 
Thou'rt faint and worn — hear'st thou the fountain 
welling 

By the gray pillars of yon ruin'd shrine ? 
Seest thou the dewy grapes before thee swelling 1 

— He that hath left me train'd that loaded vine ! 

He was a child when thus the bower he wove, 
(Oh ! hath a day fled since his childhood's time'?) 

That I might sit and hear the sound I love, 
Beneath its shade — the convent's vesper-chime. 

And sit thou there ! — for he was gentle ever, 

With his glad voice he would have welcomed 
thee, 



And brought fresh fruits to cool thy parch'd lips' 
fever. 
There in his place thou'rt resting — where is he 1 

If I could hear that laughing voice again, 

But once again ! How oft it wanders by, 
In the still hours, like some remember'd strain, 

Troubling the heart with its wild melody ! — 
Thou hast seen much, tired pilgrim ! hast thou seen 

In that far land, the chosen land of yore, 
A youth — my Guido — with the fiery mien 

And the dark eye of this Italian shore 1 

The dark, clear, lightning eye ! On heaven and 
earth 

It smiled — as if man were not dust it smiled! 
The very air seem'd kindling with his mirth, 

And I — my heart grew young before my child ! 
My blessed child ! — I had but him — yet he 

Fill'd all my home even with o'erflowing joy, 
Sweet laughter, and wild song, and footstep free. 

Where is he now 1 ? — my pride, my flower, my 
boy! 

His sunny childhood melted from my sight, 

Like a spring dew-drop. Then his forehead wore 
A prouder look — his eye a keener light : 

I knew these woods might be his world no more ! 
He loved me — but he left me ! Thus they go 

Whom we have rear'd, watch' d, bless d, too much 
adored ! 
He heard the trumpet of the Red Cross blow, 

And bounded from me with his father's sword ! 

Thou weep' st — I tremble ! Thou hast seen the slain 

Pressing a bloody turf — the young and fair, 
With their pale beauty strewing o'er the plain 

Where hosts have met : speak ! answer ! — was 
he there 1 
Oh ! hath his smile departed 1 Could the grave 

Shut o'er those bursts of bright and tameless 
glee? 
No ! I shall yet behold his dark locks wave ! 

That look gives hope — I knew it could not be ! 

Still weep'st thou, wanderer 1 ? Some fond mother's 
glance 

O'er thee, too, brooded in thine early years — 
Think'st thou of her, whose gentle eye, perchance, 

Bathed all thy faded hair with parting tears ] 
Speak, for thy tears disturb me ! — what art thou 1 

Why dost thou hide thy face, yet weeping on 1 
Look up ! Oh ! is it — that wan cheek and brow ! — 

Is it — alas ! yet joy ! — my son, my son ! 



364 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THEKLA'S SONG; OR, THE VOICE OF A 
SPIRIT. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER. 

"*Tis not merely 

The human being's pride that peoples space 
With life and mystical predominance ; 
Since likewise for the stricken heart of love 
This visible nature, and this common world, 
Are all too narrow." — Coleridge's " Wallenstein." 
[This song is said to have been composed by Schiller in 
answer to the inquiries of a friend respecting the fate of 
Thekla, whose beautiful character is withdrawn from the 
tragedy of Wallenstein' s Death, after her resolution to visit 
the grave of her lover is made known.] 

Ask'st thou my home ? — my pathway wouldst 
thou know, 

When from thine eye my floating shadow pass'd? 
Was not my work fulfill'd and closed below 1 

Had I not lived and loved 1 My lot was cast. 

Wouldst thou ask where the nightingale is gone, 
That, melting into song her soul away, [tone 1 

Gave the spring-breeze what witch'd thee in its 
But while she loved, she lived, in that deep lay ! 

Think'st thou my heart its lost one hath not found 1 
Yes ! we are one : oh ! trust me, we have met, 

Where naught again may part what love hath bound, 
Where falls no tear, and whispers no regret. 

There shalt thou find us, there with us be blest, 
If, as our love, thy love is pure and true ! 

There dwells my father, 1 sinless and at rest, 
Where the fierce murderer may no more pursue. 

And well he feels, no error of the dust 

Drew to the stars of heaven his mortal ken ; 

There it is with us even as is our trust — 
He that believes is near the holy then. 

There shall each feeling, beautiful and high, 
Keep the sweet promise of its earthly day. 

Oh ! fear thou not to dream with waking eye ! 
There lies deep meaning oft in childish play. 



THE REVELLERS. 
Ring, joyous chords ! — ring out again ! 
A swifter, and a wilder strain ! 
They are here — the fair face and the careless heart, 

And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part. 

But I met a dimly mournful glance, 
In a sudden turn of the flying dance ; 
I heard the tone of a heavy sigh 
In a pause of the thrilling melody ! 
1 Wallenstein. 



And it is not well that woe should breathe 

On the bright spring-flowers of the festal wreath! — 

Ye that to thought or to grief belong, 

Leave, leave the hall of song ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! But who art thou 

With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale young brow, 
And the world of dreamy gloom that lies 
In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes ? 
Thou hast loved, fair girl ! thou hast loved too well ! 
Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell ; 
Thou hast pour'd thy heart's rich treasures forth, 
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth ! 
Mourn on ! — yet come thou not here the while, 
It is but a pain to see thee smile ! 
There is not a tone in our songs for thee — 
Home with thy sorrows flee ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ring out again ! 

But what dost thou with the revel's train 1 
A silvery voice through the soft air floats, 
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes ; 
There are bright young faces that pass thee by. 
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye ! 
Away ! there's a void in thy yearning breast, 
Thou weary man ! wilt thou here find rest ! 
Away ! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled, 
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead : 
Thou art but more lone midst the sounds of mirth — 
Back to thy silent hearth ! 

Ring, joyous chords .'—ring forth again ! 

A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 

But thou, though a reckless mien be thine, 
And thy cup be crown'd with the foaming wine, 
By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud, 
By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled cloud, 
I know thee ! it is but the wakeful fear 
Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here ! 
I know thee ! — thou fearest the solemn night, 
With her piercing stars and her deep wind's might! 
There's atone in her voice which thou fain wouldst 

shun, 
For it asks what the secret soul hath done ! 
And thou — there's a dark weight on thine — away ! — 
Back to thy home, and pray ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ring out again ! 

A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 

And bring fresh wreaths ! — we will banish all 

Save the free in heart from our festive hall. 

On ! through the maze of the fleet dance, on ! — 

But where are the young and the lovely gone ? 

Where are the brows with the Red Rose crown'd, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



365 



And the floating forms with the bright zone bound] 
And the waving locks and the flying feet, 
That still should be where the mirthful meet ? — 
They are gone — they are fled — they are parted all : 
Alas ! the forsaken hall ! 



THE CONQUEROR'S SLEEP. 

Sleep midst thy banners furl'd ! 
Yes ! thou art there, upon thy buckler lying, 
With the soft wind unfelt around thee sighing, 
Thou chief of hosts, whose trumpet shakes the 

world ! 
Sleep, while the babe sleeps on its mother's breast. 
Oh ! strong is night— for thou too art at rest ! 

Stillness hath smooth'd thy brow, 
And now might love keep timid vigils by thee, 
Now might the foe with stealthy foot draw nigh thee, 
Alike unconscious and defenceless thou ! 
Tread lightly, watchers ! Now the field is won, 
Break not the rest of nature's weary son ! 

Perchance some lovely dream 
Back from the stormy fight thy soul is bearing, 
To the green places of thy boyish daring, 
And all the windings of thy native stream. 
Why, this were joy ! Upon the tented plain, 
Dream on, thou Conqueror !— be a child again ! 

But thou wilt wake at morn, 
With thy strong passions to the conflict leaping, 
And thy dark troubled thoughts all earth o'er- 

sweeping ; 
So wilt thou rise, thou of woman born ! 
And put thy terrors on, till none may dare 
Look upon thee — the tired one, slumbering there ! 

Why, so the peasant sleeps 
Beneath his vine ! — and man must kn eel before thee, 
And for his birthright vainly still implore thee ! 
Shalt thou be stay'd because thy brother weeps ? — 
Wake ! and forget that midst a dreaming world, 
Thou hast lain thus, with all thy banners furl'd ! 

1 A beautiful spring in the woods near St Asaph, formerly 
covered in with a chapel, now in ruins. It was dedicated to the 
Virgin , and, according to Pennant, much the resort of pilgrims. 

[Those who only know the neighbourhood of St Asaph 
from travelling along its highways, can be little aware how 
much delightful scenery is attainable within walks of two or 
three miles' distance from Mrs Hemans's residence. The 
placid beauty of the Clwyd, and the wilder graces of the 
sister stream, the Elwy, particularly in the vicinity of " Our 
Lady's Well," and the interesting rocks and caves at Cefn, 



Forget that thou, even thou, 
Hast feebly shiver' d when the wind pass'd o'er thee, 
And sunk to rest upon the earth which bore thee, 
And felt the night-dew chill thy fever'd brow ! 
Wake with the trumpet, with the spear press on ! — 
Yet shall the dust take home its mortal son. 



OUR LADY'S WELL. 1 

Fount of the woods ! thou art hid no more 
From heaven's clear eye, as in time of yore. 
For the roof hath sunk from thy mossy walls, 
And the sun's free glance on thy slumber falls ; 
And the dim tree-shadows across thee pass, 
As the boughs are sway'd o'er thy silvery glass ; 
And the reddening leaves to thy breast are blown, 
When the autumn wind hath a stormy tone ; 
And thy bubbles rise to the flashing rain — 
Bright Fount ! thou art nature's own again ! 

Fount of the vale ! thou art sought no more 
By the pilgrim's foot, as in time of yore, 
When he came from afar, his beads to tell, 
And to chant his hymn at Our Lady's Well. 
There is heard no Ave through thy bowers, 
Thou art gleaming lone midst thy water-flowers ! 
But the herd may drink from thy gushing wave, 
And there may the reaper his forehead lave, 
And the woodman seeks thee not in vain — 
Bright Fount ! thou art nature's own again ! 

Fount of the Virgin's ruin'd shrine ! 

A voice that speaks of the past is thine ! 

It mingles the tone of a thoughtful sigh 

With the notes that ring through the laughing sky; 

Midst the mirthful song of the summer bird, 

And the sound of the breeze, it will yet be heard ! — 

Why is it that thus we may gaze on thee, 

To the brilliant sunshine sparkling free 1 

'Tis that all on earth is of Times domain — 

He hath made thee nature's own again ! 

Fount of the chapel with ages gray ! 
Thou art springing freshly amidst decay ; 

are little known to general tourists ; though, by the lovers of 
her poetry, it will be remembered how sweetly she has 
apostrophised the 

" Fount of the chapel with ages gray ; " 
and how tenderly, amid far different scenes, her thoughts 
reverted to the 

" Cambrian river with slow music gliding, 

By pastoral hills, old woods, and ruin'd towers." 

—(Sonnet to the River Clwyd.) 
— Memoir, p. 92-3.] 



366 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Thy rites are closed, and thy cross lies low, 


My chainless footstep naught hath kept 


And the changeful hours breathe o'er thee now. 


From thy haunts of song and glee. 


Yet if at thine altar one holy thought 




In man's deep spirit of old hath wrought ; 


Thou hast flown in wayward visions, 


If peace to the mourner hath here been given, 


In memories of the dead — 


Or prayer, from a chasten'd heart, to heaven — 


In shadows from a troubled heart, 


Be the spot still hallow'd while Time shall reign, 


O'er thy sunny pathway shed : 


Who hath made thee nature's own again ! 






In brief and sudden strivings 





To fling a weight aside — 


THE PARTING OF SUMMER. 


Midst these thy melodies have ceased, 




And all thy roses died. 


Thou'rt bearing hence thy roses, 




Glad summer, fare thee well ! 


But oh ! thou gentle Summer ! 


Thou'rt singing thy last melodies 


If I greet thy flowers once more, 


In every wood and dell. 


Bring me again the buoyancy 




Wherewith my soul should soar ! 


But ere the golden sunset 




Of thy latest lingering day, 


Give me to hail thy sunshine 


Oh ! tell me, o'er this checker'd earth, 


With song and spirit free ; 


How hast thou pass'd away 1 


Or in a purer air than this 




May that next meeting be ! 


Brightly, sweet Summer ! brightly 




Thine hours have floated by, 


' ~~ 


To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs, 


THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS. 


The rangers of the sky ; 






" Sing aloud 




Old songs, the precious music of the heart." 


And brightly in the forests, 


Wordsworth. 


To the wild deer wandering free; 


Sing them upon the sunny hills, 


And brightly, 'midst the garden flowers, 


When days are long and bright, 


To the happy murmuring bee : 


And the blue gleam of shining rills 




Is loveliest to the sight ! 


But how to human bosoms, 


Sing them along the misty moor, 


With all their hopes and fears, 


Where ancient hunters roved, 


And thoughts that make them eagle-wings, 


And swell them through the torrent's roar, 


To pierce the unborn years ] 


The songs our fathers loved ! — ■ 


Sweet Summer ! to the captive 


The songs their souls rejoiced to hear 


Thou hast flown in burning dreams 


When harps were in the hall, 


Of the woods, with all their whispering leaves, 


And each proud note made lance and spear 


And the blue rejoicing streams ; — 


Thrill on the banner'd wall : 




The songs that through our valleys green, 


To the wasted and the weary 


Sent on from age to age, 


On the bed of sickness bound, 


Like his own river's voice, have been 


In swift delirious fantasies, 


The peasant's heritage. 


That changed with every sound ; — 






The reaper sings them when the vale 


To the sailor on the billows, 


Is fill'd with plumy sheaves ; 


In longings, wild and vain, 


The woodman, by the starlight pale, 


For the gushing founts and breezy hills, 


Cheer'd homeward through the leaves : 


And the homes of earth again ! 


And unto them the glancing oars 




A joyous measure keep, 


And unto me, glad Summer ! 


Where the dark rocks that crest our shores 


How hast thou flown to me ? 


Dash back the foaming deep. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



3C; 



So let it be ! a light they 

O'er each old fount and grove ; 
A memory of the gentle dead, 

A lingering spell of love. 
Murmuring the names of mighty men, 

They bid our streams roll on, 
And link high thoughts to every glen 

Where valiant deeds were done. 

Teach them your children round the hearth, 

When evening fires burn clear, 
And in the fields of harvest mirth, 

And on the hills of deer. 
So shall each unforgotten word,, 

When far those loved ones roam, 
Call back the hearts which once it stirr'd, 

To childhood's holy home. 

The green woods of their native land 

Shall whisper in the strain, 
The voices of their household band 

Shall breathe their names again ; 
The heathery heights in vision rise, 

Where, like the stag, they roved. 
Sing to your sons those melodies, 

The songs your fathers loved ! 



THE WORLD IN THE OPEN AIR. 
Come, while in freshness and dew it lies, 
To the world that is under the free blue skies ! 
Leave ye man's home, and forget his care — 
There breathes no sigh on the dayspring's air. 

Come to the woods, in whose mossy dells 
A light, all made for the poet dwells — 
A light, colour'd softly by tender leaves, 
Whence the primrose a mellower glow receives. 

The stock-dove is there in the beechen tree, 
And the lulling tone of the honey-bee ; 
And the voice of cool waters midst feathery fern, 
Shedding sweet sounds from some hidden urn. 

There is life, there is youth, there is tameless 
mirth, [birth ; 

Where the streams, with the lilies they wear, have 
There is peace where the alders are whispering low: 
Come from man's dwellings with all their woe ! 

Yes ! we will come — we will leave behind 
The homes and the sorrows of human kind. 
It is well to rove where the river leads 
Its bright blue vein along sunny meads : 



It is well through the rich wild woods to go, 
And to pierce the haunts of the fawn and doe ; 
And to hear the gushing of gentle springs, 
When the heart has been fretted by worldly stings; 

And to watch the colours that flit and pass, 
With insect-wings, through the wavy grass ; 
And the silvery gleams o'er the ash-tree's bark, 
Borne in with a breeze through the foliage dark. 

Joyous and far shall our wanderings be, 
As the flight of birds o'er the glittering sea : 
To the woods, to the dingles where violets blow, 
We will bear no memory of earthly woe. 

But if, by the forest-brook, we meet 
A line like the pathway of former feet ; 
If, midst the hills, in some lonely spot, 
We reach the gray ruins of tower or cot ; — 

If the cell, where a hermit of old hath pray'd, 
Lift up its cross through the solemn shade ; 
Or if some nook, where the wild flowers wave, 
Bear token sad of a mortal grave, — 

Doubt not but there will our steps be stay'd, 
There our quick spirits awhile delay'd ; 
There will thought fix our impatient eyes, 
And win back our hearts to their sympathies. 

For what though the mountains and skies be fail . 
Steep'd in soft hues of the summer air ? 
'Tis the soul of man, by its hopes and dreams, 
That lights up all nature with living gleams. 

Where it hath suffer'd and nobly striven, 
Where it hath pour'd forth its vows to heaven ; 
Where to repose it hath brightly pass'd, 
O'er this green earth there is glory cast. 

And by that soul, midst groves and rills, 
And flocks that feed on a thousand hills, 
Birds of the forest, and flowers of the sod, 
We, only we, may be link'd to God ! 



KINDRED HEARTS. 

Oh ! ask not, hope thou not too much 

Of sympathy below ! 
Few are the hearts whence one same touch 

Bids the sweet fountains flow — 
Few, and by still conflicting powers 

Forbidden here to meet : 



368 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Such ties would make this life of ours 


The cradle of that mighty birth, 


Too fair for aught so fleet. 


So long a hidden thing to earth ! 


It may be that thy brother's eye 


He heard its life's first murmuring sound, 


Sees not as thine, which turns 


A low mysterious tone — 


In such deep reverence to the sky, 


A music sought, but never found 


Where the rich sunset burns : 


By kings and warriors gone. 


It may be that the breath of spring, 


He listen'd — and his heart beat high : 


Born amidst violets lone, 


That was the song of victory ! 


A rapture o'er thy soul can bring — 




A dream, to his unknown. 


The rapture of a conqueror's mood 




Rush'd burning through his frame, — 


The tune that speaks of other times — 


The depths of that green solitude 


A sorrowful delight ! 


Its torrents could not tame; 


The melody of distant chimes, 


Though stillness lay, with eve's last smile, 


The sound of waves by night, 


Round those far fountains of the Nile. 


The wind that, with so many a tone, 




Some chord within can thrill, — 


Night came with stars. Across his soul 


These may have language all thine own, 


There swept a sudden change : 


To him a mystery still. 


E'en at the pilgrim's glorious goal, 




A shadow dark and strange 


Yet scorn thou not, for this, the true 


Breathed from the thought, so swift to fall 


And steadfast love of years ; 


O'er triumph's hour — and is this all? 1 


The kindly, that from childhood grew, 




The faithful to thy tears ! 


No more than this ! What seem'd it now 


If there be one that o'er the dead 


First by that spring to stand 1 


Hath in thy grief borne part, 


A thousand streams of lovelier flow 


And watch'd through sickness by thy bed, — 


Bathed his own mountain-land ! 


Call his a kindred heart ! 


Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track, 




Their wild, sweet voices, call'd him back. 


But for those bonds all perfect made, 




Wherein bright spirits blend, 


They call'd him back to many a glade, 


Like sister flowers of one sweet shade 


His childhood's haunt of play, 


With the same breeze that bend — 


Where brightly through the beechen shade 


For that full bliss of thought allied 


Their waters glanced away ; 


Never to mortals given, 


They call'd him, with their sounding waves, 


Oh ! lay thy lovely dreams aside, 


Back to his father's hills and graves. 


Or lift them unto heaven. 






But, darkly mingling with the thought 




Of each familiar scene, 




Rose up a fearful vision, fraught 




With all that lay between — 


THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE OF 


The Arab's lance, the desert's gloom, 


THE NILE. 


The whirling sands, the red simoom ! 


In sunset's light, o'er Afric thrown, 


Where was the glow of power and pride 1 


A wanderer proudly stood 


The spirit born to roam 1 


Beside the well-spring, deep and lone, 


His alter'd heart within him died 


Of Egypt's awful flood — 


With yearnings for his home ! 


1 Bruce's mingled feelings on arriving at the source of the 


fountains of the Nile, upon comparison with the rise of many of 


Nile, are thus portrayed by him : — " I was, at that very mo- 


our rivers, became now a trifling object in my sight. I remem- 


ment, in possession of what had for many years been the princi- 


bered that magnificent scene in my own native country, where 


pal object of my ambition and wishes; indifference, which, from 


the Tweed, Clyde, and Annan, rise in one hill. I began, in 


the usual infirmity of human nature, follows, at least for a time, 


my sorrow, to treat the inquiry about the source of the Nile as 


complete enjoyment, had taken place of it. The marsh and the 


a violent effort of a distempered fancy." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 369 


All vainly struggling to repress 


And stream'd above the gallant child 


That gush of painful tenderness. 

/ 


Like banners in the sky. 


He wept ! The stars of Afric's heaven 


There came a burst of thunder-sound — 


Beheld his bursting tears, 


The boy — oh ! where was he ? 


E'en on that spot where fate had given 


Ask of the winds that far around 


The meed of toiling years ! — 


With fragments strew'd the sea ! — 


Happiness ! how far we flee 




Thine own sweet paths in search of thee ! 


With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 




That well had borne their part ; 





But the noblest thing which perish'd there 


CASABLANCA. 1 " 


Was that young faithful heart ! 


The boy stood on the burning deck 





Whence all but he had fled ; 


THE DIAL OF FLOWEKS. 2 


The flame that lit the battle's wreck 




Shone round him o'er the dead. 


'Twas a lovely thought to mark the hours, 




As they floated in light away, 


Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 


By the opening and the folding flowers, 


As born to rule the storm — 


That laugh to the summer's day. 


A creature of heroic blood, 




A proud, though child-like form. 


Thus had each moment its own rich hue, 




And its graceful cup and bell, 


The flames roll'd on— he would not go 


In whose colour'd vase might sleep the dew, 


Without his father's word ; 


Like a pearl in an ocean-shell. 


That father, faint in death below, 




His voice no longer heard. 


To such sweet signs might the time have flow'd 




In a golden current on, 


He call'd aloud : — " Say, father ! say 


Ere from the garden, man's first abode, 


If yet my task is done ! " 


The glorious guests were gone. 


He knew not that the chieftain lay 




Unconscious of his son. 


So might the days have been brightly told — 




Those days of song and dreams — 


" Speak, father ! " once again he cried, 


When shepherds gather'd their flocks of old 


" If I may yet be gone ! " 


By the blue Arcadian streams. 


And but the booming shots replied, 




And fast the flames roll'd on. 


So in those isles of delight, that rest 




Far off in a breezeless main, 


Upon his brow he felt their breath, 


Which many a bark, with a weary quest, 


And in his waving hair, 


Has sought, but still in vain. 


And look'd from that lone post of death 




In still yet brave despair ; 


Yet is not life, in its real flight, 




Mark'd thus — even thus — on earth, 


And shouted but once more aloud, 


By the closing of one hope's delight, 


" My father ! must I stay?" 


And another's gentle birth ] 


While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, 




The wreathing fires made way. 


Oh ! let us live, so that flower by flower, 




Shutting in turn, may leave 


They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, 


A lingerer still for the sunset hour, 


They caught the flag on high, 


A charm for the shaded eve. 


1 Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen jears old, 


explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder 


son to the Admiral of' the Orient, remained at his post 


2 This dial was, I believe, formed by Linnaeus, and marked 


(in the Battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire, 


the hours by the opening and closing, at regular intervals, of 


and all the guns had been abandoned ; and perished in the 


the flowers arranged in it. 



370 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



OUR DAILY PATHS. 1 

" Naught shall prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith that all which we behold 
Is full of blessings." Wordsworth. 

There's beauty all around our paths, if but our 

watchful eyes 
Can trace it midst familiar things, and through 

their lowly guise ; 
We may find it where a hedgerow showers its 

blossoms o'er our way, 
Or a cottage window sparkles forth in the last red 

light of day. 

We may find it where a spring shines clear beneath 

an aged tree, 
With the foxglove o'er the water's glass, borne 

downwards by the bee ; 
Or where a swift and sunny gleam on the birchen 

stems is thrown, 
As a soft wind playing parts the leaves, in copses 

green and lone. 

We may find it in the winter boughs, as they cross 

the cold blue sky, 
While soft on icy pool and stream their pencil'd 

shadows lie, 
When we look upon their tracery, by the fairy 

frost-work bound, 
Whence the flitting redbreast shakes a shower of 

crystals to the ground. 

Yes ! beauty dwells in all our paths — but sorrow 

too is there : 
How oft some cloud within us dims the bright, 

still summer air ! 
When we carry our sick hearts abroad amidst the 

joyous things, 
That through the leafy places glance on many- 

colour'd wings, 

1 This little poem derives an additional interest from being 
affectingly associated with a name no less distinguished than 
that of the late Mr Dugald Stewart. The admiration he al- 
ways expressed for Mrs Hemans's poetry, was mingled with 
regret that she so generally made choice of melancholy sub- 
jects ; and on one occasion, he sent her, through a mutual 
friend, a message suggestive of his wish that she would em- 
ploy her fine talents in giving more consolatory views of the 
ways of Providence, thus infusing comfort and cheer into 
the bosoms of her readers, in a spirit of Christian philosophy, 
which, he thought, would be more consonant with the pious 
mind and loving heart displayed in every line she wrote, than 
dwelling on what was painful and depressing, however beau- 
tifully and touchingly such subjects might be treated of. This 
message was faithfully transmitted, and almost by return of 
post, Mrs Ilemans (who was then residing in Wales) sent to 



With shadows from the past we fill the happy 

woodland shades, 
And a mournful memory of the dead is with us 

in the glades ; 
And our dream-like fancies lend the wind an echo's 

plaintive tone 
Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laughter 

gone. 

But are we free to do even thus — to wander as 

we will, 
Bearing sad visions through the grove, and o'er 

the breezy hill 1 
No ! in our daily paths he cares, that ofttimes bind 

us fast, 
While from their narrow round we see the golden 

day fleet past. 

They hold us from the woodlark's haunts, and 
violet dingles, back, 

And from all the lovely sounds and gleams in the 
shining river's track ; 

They bar us from our heritage of spring-time, hope, 
and mirth, 

And weigh our burden'd spirits down with the cum- 
bering dust of earth. 

Yet should this be? Too much, too soon, despond- 

ingly we yield ! 
A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of the 

field! 
A sweeter by the birds of heaven — which tell us, 

in their flight, 
Of One that through the desert air for ever guides 

them right. 

Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and bid 

vain conflicts cease 1 
Ay, when they commune with themselves in holy 

hours of peace 

the kind friend to whom it had been forwarded, the poem of 
" Our Daily Paths," requesting it might be given to Mr 
Stewart, with an assurance of her gratitude for the interest 
he took in her writings, and alleging as the reason of the 
mournful strain which pervaded them, "that a cloud hung 
over her life which she could not always rise above." 

The letter reached Mr Stewart just as he was stepping into 
the carriage, to leave his country residence (Kinneil House, 
the property of the Duke of Hamilton) for Edinburgh — the 
last time, alas ! his presence was ever to gladden that happy 
home, as his valuable life was closed very shortly afterwards. 
The poem was read to him by his daughter, on his way to 
Edinburgh, and he expressed himself in the highest degree 
charmed and gratified with the result of his suggestions ; and 
some of the lines which pleased him more particularly were 
often repeated to him during the few remaining weeks of his life. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



371 



And feel that by the lights and clouds through 

which our pathway lies, 
By the beauty and the grief alike, we are training 

for the skies ! 



THE CROSS IN THE WILDERNESS. 

Silent and mournful sat an Indian chief, 
In the red sunset, by a grassy tomb ; 

His eyes, that might not weep, were dark with grief, 
And his arms folded in majestic gloom ; 

And his bow lay unstrung, beneath the mound 

Which sanctified the gorgeous waste around. 

For a pale cross above its greensward rose, 
Telling the cedars and the pines that there 

Man's heart and hope had struggled with his woes, 
And lifted from the dust a voice of prayer. 

Now all was hush'd — and eve's last splendour shone 

With a rich sadness on th' attesting stone. 

There came a lonely traveller o'er the wild, 
And he, too, paused in reverence by that grave, 

Asking the tale of its memorial, piled 

Between the forest and the lake's bright wave ; 

Till, as a wind might stir a wither'd oak, 

On the deep dream of age his accents broke. 

And the gray chieftain, slowly rising, said — 
" I listen'd for the words, which, years ago, 

Pass'd o'er these waters. Though the voice is fled 
Which made them as a singing fountain's flow, 

Yet, when I sit in their long-faded track, 

Sometimes the forest's murmur gives them back. 

" Ask'st thou of him whose house is lone beneath? 

I was an eagle in my youthful pride, 
When o'er the seas he came, with summer's breath, 

To dwell amidst us, on the lake's green side. 
Many the times of flowers have been since then — 
Many, but bringing naught like him again ! 

" Not with the huuter's bow and spear he came, 
O'er the blue hills to chase the flying roe ; 

Not the dark glory of the woods to tame, 

Laying their cedars, like the corn-stalks, low ; 

But to spread tidings of all holy things, 

Gladdening our souls, as with the morning's wings. 

" Doth not yon cypress whisper how we met, 
I and my brethren that from earth are gone, 



Under its boughs to hear his voice, which yet 

Seems through their gloom to send a silvery tone 1 
He told of One the grave's dark bonds who broke, 
And our hearts burn'd within us as he spoke. 

" He told of far and sunny lands, which lie 
Beyond the dust wherein our fathers dwell : 

Bright must they be ! for there are none that die, 
And none that weep, and none that say ' Farewell !' 

He came to guide us thither ; but away 

The Happy call'd him, and he might not stay. 

" We saw him slowly fade — athirst, perchance, 
For the fresh waters of that lovely clime ; 

Yet was there still a sunbeam in his glance, 
And on his gleaming hair no touch of time — 

Therefore we hoped : but now the lake looks dim, 

For the green summer comes — and finds not him ! 

" We gather'd round him in the dewy hour 
Of one still morn, beneath his chosen tree ; 

From his clear voice, at first, the words of power 
Came low, like moanings of a distant sea ; 

But swell'd and shook the wilderness ere long, 

As if the spirit of the breeze grew strong. 

"And then once more they trembled on his tongue, 
And his white eyelids flutter'd, and his head 

Fell back, and mist upon his forehead hung 

Know'st thou not how we pass to join the deadl 

It is enough ! he sank upon my breast — 

Our friend that loved us, he was gone to rest ! 

" We buried him where he was wont to pray, 
By the calm lake, e'en here, at eventide ; 

We rear'd this cross in token where he lay, 
For on the cross, he said, his Lord had died ! 

Now hath he surely reach'd, o'er mount and wave, 

That flowery land whose green turf hides no grave. 

" But I am sad ! I mourn the clear light taken 
Back from my people, o'er whose place it shone, 

The pathway to the better shore forsaken, 
And the true words forgotten, save by one, 

Who hears them faintly sounding from the past, 

Mingled with death-songs in each fitful blast." 

Then spoke the wanderer forth with kindling eye : 
" Son of the wilderness ! despair thou not, 

Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by, 
And the cloud settled o'er thy nation's lot ! 

Heaven darkly works — yet, where the seed hath 
been, 

There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen. 



372 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



" Hope on, hope ever ! — by the sudden springing 
Of green leaves which the winter hid so long ; 

And by the bursts of free, triumphant singing, 
After cold silent months the woods among ; 

And by the rending of the frozen chains, 

Which bound the glorious rivers on their plains. 

" Deem not the words of light that here were 
spoken, 
But as a lovely song, to leave no trace ; 
Yet shall the gloom which wraps thy hills be 
broken, 
And the full dayspring rise upon thy race ! 
And fading mists the better path disclose, 
And the wide desert blossom as the rose." 

So by the Cross they parted, in the wild, 

Each fraught with musings for life's after day, 

Memories to visit one, the forest's child, 
By many a blue stream in its lonely way ; 

And upon one, midst busy throngs to press 

Deep thoughts and sad, yet full of holiness. 

[" ' The Cross in the Wilderness,' by Mrs Hemans, is in 
every way worthy of her delightful genius ; and nothing but 
want of room prevents us from quoting it entire. Mrs He- 
mans is, indeed, the star that shines most brightly in the 
hemisphere ; and in every thing she writes, there is, along 
Avith a fine spirit of poetry, a still finer spirit of moral and 
religious truth. Of all the female poets of the day, Mrs 
Hemans is, in the best sense of the word, the most truly 
feminine— no false glitter about her— no ostentatious display 
— no gaudy and jingling ornaments — but, as an English 
matron ought to be, simple, sedate, cheerful, elegant, and 
religious."— Professor Wilson in Blackwood's Magazine. 
Dec. 1826. 



LAST RITES. 

By the mighty minster's bell, 
Tolling with a sudden swell ; 
By the colours half-mast high, 
O'er the sea hung mournfully ; 

Know, a prince hath died ! 

By the drum's dull muffled sound, 
By the arms that sweep the ground, 
By the volleying muskets' tone, 
Speak ye of a soldier gone 

In his manhood's pride. 



By the chanted psalm that fills 
Reverently the ancient hills, 1 



1 A custom still retained at rural funerals in some parts of 
England and Wales. 

2 " It is long since we have read any thing more beautiful 



Learn, that from his harvests done, 
Peasants bear a brother on 
To his last repose. 

By the pall of snowy white 
Through the yew-trees gleaming bright ; 
By the garland on the bier, 
Weep ! a maiden claims thy tear — 
Broken is the rose ! 

Which is the tenderest rite of all 1 — 
Buried virgin's coronal, 
Requiem o'er the monarch's head, 
Farewell gun for warrior dead, 

Herdsman's funeral hymn 1 

Tells not each of human woe 1 
Each of hope and strength brought low 1 
Number each with holy things, 
If one chastening thought it brings 
Ere life's day grow dim ! 



THE HEBREW MOTHER. 2 

The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain, 
When a young mother, with her first-born, thence 
Went up to Zion ; for the boy was vow'd 
Unto the Temple service. By the hand 
She led him, and her silent soul, the while, 
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye 
Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think 
That aught so pure, so beautiful was hers, 
To bring before her God. So pass'd they on 
O'er Judah's hills ; and wheresoe'er the leaves 
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon, 
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive boughs, 
With their cool dimness, cross'd the sultry blue 
Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest ; 
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep 
That weigh'd their dark fringe down, to sit and 

watch 
The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose, 
As at a red flower's heart. And where a fount 
Lay, like a twilight star, midst palmy shades, 
Making its bank green gems along the wild, 
There, too, she linger' d, from the diamond wave 
Drawing bright water for his rosy lips, 
And softly parting clusters of jet curls 
To bathe his brow. At last the fane was reach'd, 

than the following poem by Mrs Hemans."— Blackwood's 
Magazine. Jan. 1826. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The earth's one sanctuary — and rapture hush'd 
Her bosom, as before her, through the day, 
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep'd 
In light like floating gold. But when that hour 
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy 
Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye 
Beseechingly to hers, and half in fear, [her arm 
Turn'd from the white-robed priest, and round 
Clung even as joy clings — the deep spring-tide 
Of nature then swell'd high, and o'er her child 
Bending, her soul broke forth in mingled sounds 
Of weeping and sad song. " Alas !" she cried, — 



" Alas ! my boy, thy gentle grasp is on me, 
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes ; 

And now fond thoughts arise, 
And silver cords again to earth have won me, 
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart — 

How shall I hence depart ] 

" How the lone paths retrace where thou wert 

playing 
So late, along the mountains, at my side 1 

And I, in joyous pride, 
By every place of flowers my course delaying, 
Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair, 

Beholding thee so fair ! 

" And, oh ! the home whence thy bright smile 

hath parted, 
Will it not seem as if the sunny day 

Turn'd from its door away 1 [hearted, 

While through its chambers wandering, weary- 
I languish for thy voice, which past me still 

Went like a singing rill ] 

" Under the palm-trees thouno more shalt meet me, 
When from the fount at evening I return, 

With the full water-urn ; 
ISTor will thy sleep's low dove-like breathings greet 
As midst the silence of the stars I wake, [me, 

And watch for thy dear sake. 

" And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round 

thee, 
Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed 1 

Wilt thou not vainly spread 
Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound 
To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear, [thee, 

A cry which none shall hear 1 

"What have I said, my child ! Will He not hear thee, 
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest ? 
Shall He not guard thy rest, 



And, in the hush of holy midnight near thee, 
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy] 
Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy. 

" I give thee to thy God — the God that gave thee, 
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart ! 

And, precious as thou art, 
And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, 
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled ! 

And thou shalt be His child. 

" Therefore, farewell ! I go— my soul may fail me, 
As the hart panteth for the water brooks, 

Yearning for thy sweet looks. 
But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me; 
Thou in the Shadow of the Bock shalt dwell, 

The Eock of Strength.— Farewell ! " ^ 

[" It would be wearisomely superfluous to enumerate the 
long series of lyrics which she now poured forth with increas- 
ing earnestness and rapidity, and without which none of the 
lighter periodicals of the day made its appearance. One or 
two, however, must be mentioned, as certain to survive so 
long as the short poem shall be popular in England. ' The 
Treasures of the Deep,' ' The Hour of Death,' ' The Graves 
of a Household,' ' The Cross in the Wilderness,' are all ad- 
mirable. With these, too, may be mentioned those poems 
in which a short descriptive recitative (to borrow a word from 
the opera) introduces a lyrical burst of passion or regret, or 
lamentation. This form of composition became so especially 
popular in America, that hardly a poet has arisen, since the in- 
fluence of Mrs Hemans' genius made itself felt on the other side 
of the Atlantic, who has not attempted something of a similar 
subject and construction. ' The Hebrew Mother ' has been 
followed by an infinite number of sketches from Scripture : 
this lyric, too, should be particularised as having made friends 
for its authoress among those of the ancient faith in Eng- 
land. Among the last strangers who visited her, eager to 
thank her for the pleasure her writings had afforded them, 
were a Jewish gentleman and lady, who entreated to be ad- 
mitted by the author of the ' Hebrew Mother.' "— Chorley's 
Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 114-15. 

" Her ' Voice of Spring,' her ' Hour of Death,' her ' Trea- 
sures of the Deep,' her ' Graves of a Household,' her ' Eng- 
land's Dead,' her ' Trumpet,' her ' Hebrew Mother,' and a 
host of similar pieces— these are the undying lays, the lumps 
of pure gold. We do not think thus with reference to Mrs 
Hemans' lyrics only ; it strikes us that nearly all our present 
poets must depend for future fame on their shorter pieces."— 
Literary Magnet, 1826.] 



THE WRECK. 

All night the booming minute-gun 
Had peal'd along the deep, 

And mournfully the rising sun 
Look'd o'er the tide-worn steep. 

A bark from India's coral strand, 
Before the raging blast, 



374 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Had vail'd her topsails to the sand, 
And bow'd her noble mast. 

The queenly ship ! — brave hearts had striven, 

And true ones died with her ! 
We saw her mighty cable riven, 

Like floating gossamer. 
We saw her proud flag struck that morn — 

A star once o'er the seas, — 
Her anchor gone, her deck uptorn, 

And sadder things than these ! 

We saw her treasures cast away, 

The rocks with pearls were sown; 
And, strangely sad, the ruby's ray 

Flash'd out o'er fretted stone. 
And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er, 

Like ashes by a breeze ; 
And gorgeous robes — but oh ! that shore 

Had sadder things than these ! 

We saw the strong man still and low, 

A crush'd reed thrown aside ; 
Yet, by that rigid lip and brow, 

Not without strife he died. 
And near him on the sea-weed lay — 

Till then we had not wept — 
But well our gushing hearts might say, 

That there a mother slept ! 

For her pale arms a babe had press'd 

With such a wreathing grasp, 
Billows had dash'd o'er that fond breast, 

Yet not undone the clasp. 
Her very tresses had been flung 

To wrap the fair child's form, 
Where still their wet long streamers hung 

All tangled by the storm. 

And beautiful, midst that wild scene, 

Gleam'd up the boy's dead face, 
Like slumber's, trustingly serene, 

In melancholy grace. 
Deep in her bosom lay his head, 

With half-shut violet-eye — 
He had known little of her dread, 

Naught of her agony ! 

human love ! whose yearning heart, 

Through all things vainly true, 
So stamps upon thy mortal part 

Its passionate adieu — 
Surely thou hast another lot : 

There is some home for thee, 



Where thou shalt rest, remembering not 
The moaning of the sea ! 



THE TEUMPET. 1 

The trumpet's voice hath roused the land- 
Light up the beacon pyre ! 

A hundred hills have seen the brand, 
And waved the sign of fire. 

A hundred banners to the breeze 
Their gorgeous folds have cast — 

And, hark ! was that the sound of seas 1 
A king to war went past. 

The chief is arming in his hall, 

The peasant by his hearth ; 
The mourner hears the thrilling call, 

And rises from the earth. 
The mother on her first-born son 

Looks with a boding eye — 
They come not back, though all be won, 

Whose young hearts leap so high. 

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound 

The falchion to his side ; 
E'en, for the marriage altar crown' d, 

The lover quits his bride. 
And all this haste, and change, and fear, 

By earthly clarion spread ! — 
How will it be when kingdoms hear 

The blast that wakes the dead 1 



EVENING PRAYEE, 

AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL. 

" Now in thy youth, beseech of Him 
Who giveth, upbraiding not, 
That His light in thy heart become not dim, 

And his love be unforgot ; 
And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be 
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee." 

Bernard Barton. 

Hush ! 'tis a holy hour. The quiet room 

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds 

A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom 
And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads, 

With all their clustering locks, untouch'd by care, 

And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd with night, in 
prayer. 

1 " We cannot refrain quoting another poem by the same 
distinguished writer. It has something sublime." — Black- 
wood's Magazine, Jan. 1826. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



375 



Gaze on — 'tis lovely ! Childhood's lip and cheek, 
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought ! 

Gaze — yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek, 
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought? — 

Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, 

What death must fashion for eternity ! 

joyous creatures ! that will sink to rest, 
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, 

As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest, 
Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun — 

Lift up your hearts ! though yet no sorrow lies 

Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes. 

Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled 
springs 

Of hope make melody where'er ye tread, 
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings 

Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread ; 
Yet in those fiute-like voices, mingling low, 
Is woman's tenderness — how soon her woe ! 

Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep, [hour, 
And patient smiles to wear through suffering's 

And sumless riches, from affection's deep, 
To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower ! 

And to make idols, and to find them clay, 

And to bewail that worship. Therefore pray ! 

Her lot is on you — to be found untired, 
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, 

With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, 
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain ; 

Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, 

And, oh ! to love through all things. Therefore pray ! 

And take the thought of this calm vesper time, 
With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, 

On through the dark days fading from their prime, 
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight ! 

Earth will forsake — Oh ! happy to have given 

Th' unbroken heart's first fragrance unto heaven. 



THE HOUR OF DEATH. 

" II est dans la Nature d'aimer a se livrer a l'idce meme qu'on 
redoute."— Corinne. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, Death ! 



Day is for mortal care, 
Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, 
Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of 

prayer — 
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 

The banquet hath its hour — 
Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine ; 

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelmingpower, 
A time for softer tears— but all are thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 
May look like things too glorious for decay, 

And smile at thee — but thou art not of those 
That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, death ! 

We know when moons shall wane, 
When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, 
When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grai n — 
But who shall teach us when to look for thee ! 

Is it when spring's first gale 
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie ] 
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? — 
They have one season — all are ours to die ! 

Thou art where billows foam, 
Thou ai-t where music melts upon the air ; 

Thou art around us in our peaceful home, 
And the world calls us forth — and thou art there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend, 
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest — 

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all — 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, Death ! 



THE LOST PLEIAD. 

" like the lost Pleiad seen no more below."— By ron. 

And is there glory from the heavens departed] 
void unmark'd ! — thy sisters of the sky 
Still hold their place on high, 



376 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started, 


The isles of Greece, the hills of Spain, 


Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye ! 


The purple heavens of Rome — 




Yes, all are glorious, — yet again 


Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night 1 


I bless thee, land of home ! 


She wears her crown of old magnificence, 




Though thou art exiled thence — ■ 


For thine the Sabbath peace, my land ! 


No desert seems to part those urns of light, 


And thine the guarded hearth ; 


Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense. 


And thine the dead — the noble band, 




That make thee holy earth. 


They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning — 




The shepherd greets them on his mountains free; 


Their voices meet me in thy breeze, 


And from the silvery sea 


Their steps are on thy plains ; 


To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning — 


Their names, by old majestic trees, 


Unchanged they rise, they have not mourn'd 


Are whisper'd round thy fanes. 


for thee. 






Their blood hath mingled with the tide 


Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place, 


Of thine exulting sea : 


Even as a dew-drop from the myrtle spray, 


Oh, be it still a joy, a pride, 


Swept by the wind away 1 


To live and die for thee ! 


Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, 




And was there power to smite them with decay ] 





Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven 1 


THE GRAVES OF MARTYRS. 


Bow'd be our hearts to think on what ive are, 




When from its height afar 


The kings of old have shrine and tomb 


A world sinks thus — and yon majestic heaven 


In many a minster's haughty gloom ; 


Shines not the less for that one vanish'd star ! 


And green, along the ocean side, 




The mounds arise where heroes died ; 




But show me, on thy flowery breast, 




Earth ! where thy nameless martyrs rest ! 


THE CLIFFS OF DOVER. 


The thousands that, uncheer'd by praise, 




Have made one offering of their days ; 


" The inviolate Island of the sage and free."— Byron. 


For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom's sake, 




Resign'd the bitter cup to take ; 


Rocks of my country ! let the cloud 


And silently, in fearless faith, 


Your crested heights array, 


Bowing their noble souls to death. 


And rise ye like a fortress proud 




Above the surge and spray ! 


Where sleep they, Earth 1 By no proud stone 




Their narrow couch of rest is known; 


My spirit greets you as ye stand, 


The still sad glory of their name 


Breasting the billow's foam : 


Hallows no fountain unto Fame ; 


Oh ! thus for ever guard the land, 


No — not a tree the record bears 


The sever'd land of home ! 


Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers. 


I have left rich blue skies behind, 


Yet haply all around lie strew'd 


Lighting up classic shrines, 


The ashes of that multitude : 


And music in the southern wind, 


It may be that each day we tread 


And sunshine on the vines. 


Where thus devoted hearts have bled ; 




And the young flowers our children sow, 


The breathings of the myrtle flowers 


Take root in holy dust below. 


Have floated o'er my way ; 




The pilgrim's voice, at vesper hours, 


Oh, that the many-rustling leaves, 


Hath soothed me with its lay. 


Which round our homes the summer weaves, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 377 


Or that the streams, in whose glad voice 




Our own familiar paths rejoice, 


THE VOICE OF HOME TO THE PRODIGAL. 


Might whisper through the starry sky, 


" Von Baumen, aus Wellen, aus Mauern, 


To tell where those blest slumberers lie ! 


Wie ruft es dir freundlich und lind j 




Was hast du zu wandern, zu trauern ? 


Would not our inmost hearts be still'd, 


Komm' spielen, du freundliehes Kind ! " 

La Motte Fouque. 


With knowledge of their presence fill'd, 




And by its breathings taught to prize 


Oh ! when wilt thou return 


The meekness of self-sacrifice 1 


To thy spirit's early loves'? 


■ — But the old woods and sounding waves 


To the freshness of the morn, 


Are silent of those hidden graves. 


To the stillness of the groves 1 


Yet what if no light footstep there 


The summer birds are calling 


In pilgrim-love and awe repair, 


Thy household porch around, 


So let it be ! Like him, whose clay 


And the merry waters falling 


Deep buried by his Maker lay, 


With sweet laughter in their sound. 


They sleep in secret, — but their sod, 




Unknown to man, is mark'd of God ! 


And a thousand bright-vein'd flowers, 




From their banks of moss and fern, 




Breathe of the sunny hours — 




But when wilt thou return 1 


THE HOUR OF PRAYER. 


Oh ! thou hast wander'd long 




From thy home without a guide ; 


" Pregar, pregar, pregar, 
Ch' altro ponno i mortali al pianger nati ? '* Alfieri. 


And thy native woodland song 




In thine alter'd heart hath died. 


Child, amidst the flowers at play, 




While the red light fades away ; 


Thou hast flung the wealth away, 


Mother, with thine earnest eye 


And the glory of thy spring ; 


Ever following silently ; 


And to thee the leaves' light play 


Father, by the breeze of eve 


Is a long-forgotten thing. 


Call'd thy harvest-work to leave — 




Pray : ere yet the dark hours be, 


But when wilt thou return 1 — 


Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 


Sweet dews may freshen soon 




The flower, within whose urn 


Traveller, in the stranger's land, 


Too fiercely gazed the noon. 


Far from thine own household band ; 




Mourner, haunted by the tone 


O'er the image of the sky, 


Of a voice from this world gone ; 


Which the lake's clear bosom wore, 


Captive, in whose narrow cell 


Darkly may shadows lie — 


Sunshine hath not leave to dwell ; 


But not for evermore. 


Sailor on the darkening sea — 




Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 


Give back thy heart again 




To the freedom of the woods, 


Warrior, that from battle won 


To the birds' triumphant strain, 


Breathest now at set of sun ;_ 


To the mountain solitudes ! 


Woman, o'er the lowly slain 




Weeping on his burial-plain : 


But when wilt thou return ? 


Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, 


Along thine own pure air 


Kindred by one holy tie, 


There are young sweet voices borne — 


Heaven's first star alike ye see — 


Oh ! should not thine be there 1 


Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 






Still at thy father's board 




There is kept a place for thee ; 



378 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


And, by thy smile restored, 


One ! — but to sever'd and distant dooms, 


Joy round the hearth shall be. 


How shall the sleepers arise from the tombs] 


Still hath thy mother's eye, 




Thy coming step to greet, 




A look of days gone by, 


THE BREEZE FROM SHORE. 


Tender and gravely sweet. 






[" Poetry reveals to us the loveliness of nature, brings back 


Still, when the prayer is said, 


the freshness of youthful feeling, revives the relish of simple 


For thee kind bosoms yearn, 


pleasures, keeps unquenched the enthusiasm which warmed 


For thee fond tears are shed — 


the spring-time of our being, refines youthful love, strengthens 


Oh ! when wilt thou return 1 


our interest in human nature, by vivid delineations of its 
tenderest and loftiest feelings ; and, through the brightness 




of its prophetic visions, helps faith to lay hold on the future 





life." — Channing.] 


THE WAKENING. 


Jot is upon the lonely seas, 




When Indian forests pour 


How many thousands are wakening now ! 


Forth, to the billow and the breeze, 


Some to the songs from the forest bough, 


Their odours from the shore ; 


To the rustling of leaves at the lattice pane, 


Joy, when the soft air's fanning sigh 


To the chiming fall of the early rain. 


Bears on the breath of Araby. 


And some, far out on the deep mid-sea, 


Oh ! welcome are the winds that tell 


To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee, 


A wanderer of the deep 


As they break into spray on the ship's tall side, 


Where, far away, the jasmines dwell, 


That holds through the tumult her path of pride. 


And where the myrrh-trees weep ! 




Blest on the sounding surge and foam 


And some — oh, well may their hearts rejoice ! — 


Are tidings of the citron's home ! 


To the gentle sound of a mother's voice : 




Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone, 


The sailor at the helm they meet, 


When from the board and the hearth 'tis gone. 


And hope his bosom stirs, 




Upspringing, midst the waves, to greet 


And some, in the camp, to the bugle's breath, 


The fair earth's messengers, 


And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath, 


That woo him, from the moaning main, 


And the sudden roar of the hostile gun, 


Back to her glorious bowers again. 


Which tells that a field must ere night be won. 






They woo him, whispering lovely tales 


And some, in the gloomy convict cell, 


Of many a flowering glade, 


To the dull deep note of the warning bell, 


And fount's bright gleam, in island vales 


As it heavily calls them forth to die, 


Of golden-fruited shade : 


When the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky. 


Across his lone ship's wake they bring 




A vision and a glow of spring. 


And some to the peal of the hunter's horn, 




And some to the din from the city borne, 


And, ye masters of the lay ! 


And some to the rolling of torrent floods, 


Come not even thus your songs 


Far midst old mountains and solemn woods. 


That meet us on life's weary way, 




Amidst her toiling throngs 1 


So are we roused on this checker'd earth : 


Yes ! o'er the spirit thus they bear 


Each unto light hath a daily birth ; 


A current of celestial air. 


Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet, 




Are the voices which first our upspringing meet. 


Their power is from the brighter clime 




That in our birth hath part ; 


But one must the sound be, and one the call, 


Their tones are of the world, which time 


Which from the dust shall awaken us all : 


Sears not within the heart : 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 379 


They tell us of the living light 


Pouring itself away 


In its green places ever bright. 


As a wild bird amidst the foliage turns 




That which within him triumphs, beats, or burns, 


They call us, with a voice divine, 


Into a fleeting lay ; 


Back to our early love, — 




Our vows of youth at many a shrine, 


That swells, and floats, and dies, 


Whence far and fast we rove. 


Leaving no echo to the summer woods 


Welcome high thought and holy strain 


Of the rich breathings and impassion'd sighs 


That make us Truth's and Heaven's again ! 


Which thrill'd their solitudes. 




Yet, yet remember me ! 




Friends ! that upon its murmurs oft have hung, 


THE DYING IMPROVISATORE. 1 


When from my bosom, joyously and free, 




The fiery fountain sprung. 


" My heart shall be pour'd over thee- and break." 




Prophecy of Dante. 


Under the dark rich blue 




Of midnight heavens, and on the star-lit sea, 


The spirit of my land, 


And when woods kindle into spring's first hue, 


It visits me once more ! — though I must die 


Sweet friends ! remember me ! 


Far from the myrtles which thy breeze hath fann'd, 




My own bright Italy ! 


And in the marble halls, 




Where life's full glow the dreams of beauty wear, 


It is, it is thy breath, 


And poet-thoughts embodied light the walls, 


Which stirs my soul e'en yet, as wavering flame 


Let me be with you there ! 


Is shaken by the wind, — in life and death 




Still trembling, yet the same ! 


Fain would I bind, for you, 




My memory with all glorious things to dwell ! 


Oh ! that love's quenchless power 


Fain bid all lovely sounds my name renew— 


Might waft my voice to fill thy summer sky, 


Sweet friends ! bright land ! farewell ! 


And through thy groves its dying music shower, 




Italy ! Italy ! 





The nightingale is there, 




The sunbeam's glow, the citron flower's perfume. 


MUSIC OF YESTERDAY. 


The south wind's whisper in the scented air — 






" ! mein Geist, ich fuhle es in mir, strebt naeh etwas Ueberir- 


It will not pierce the tomb ! 


dischem, da6 keinem Mensehen gegonnt ist." — Tieck. 


Never, oh ! never more, 


The chord, the harp's full chord is hush'd, 


On thy Rome's purple heaven mine eye shall dwell, 


The voice hath died away, 


Or watch the bright waves melt along thy shore — 


Whence music, like sweet waters, gush'd 


My Italy ! farewell ! 


But yesterday. 


Alas ! — thy hills among 


Th' awakening note, the breeze-like swell, 


Had I but left a memory of my name, 


The full o'ersweeping tone, 


Of love and grief one deep, true, fervent song, 


The sounds that sigh'd " Farewell, farewell ! " 


Unto immortal fame ! 


Are gone — all gone ! 


But like a lute's brief tone, 


The love, whose fervent spirit pass'd 


Like a rose-odour on the breezes cast, 


With the rich measure's flow ; 


Like a swift flush of dayspring, seen and gone, 


The grief, to which it sank at last — 


So hath my spirit pass'd — 


Where are they now 1 


1 Sestini, the Roman Improvisatore, when on his death- 




bed at Paris, is said to have poured forth a Farewell to Italy, 


They are with the scents by summer's breath 


in his most impassioned poetry. 


Borne from a rose now shed : 



380 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


With the words from lips long seal'd in death — 


The voices that have mingled here now speak 


For ever fled. 


another tongue, 




Or breathe, perchance, to alien ears the songs their 


The sea-shell of its native deep 


mother sung. 


A moaning thrill retains ; 


Sad, strangely sad, in stranger lands, must sound 


But earth and air no record keep 


each household tone : 


Of parted strains. 


The hearth, the hearth is desolate ! the bright 




fire quench'd and gone ! 


And all the memories, all the dreams, 




They woke in floating by; 


But are they speaking, singing yet, as in their 


The tender thoughts, th' Elysian gleams — 


days of glee ] 


Could these too die 1 


Those voices, are they lovely still, still sweet on 




earth or sea 1 


They died ! As on the water's breast 


Oh ! some are hush'd, and some are changed, and 


The ripple melts away, 


never shall one strain 


When the breeze that stirr'd it sinks to rest — 


Blend their fraternal cadences triumphantly again. 


So perish'd they ! 






And of the hearts that here were link'd by long- 


Mysterious in their sudden birth, 


remember'd years, 


And mournful in their close, 


Alas ! the brother knoAvs not now when fall the 


Passing, and finding not On earth 


sister's tears ! 


Aim or repose. 


One haply revels at the feast, while one may droop 

alone : 
For broken is the household chain, the bright fire 


Whence were they 1— like the breath of flowers 


Why thus to come and go ? 


quench'd and gone ! 


A long, long journey must be ours 




Ere this we know ! 


Not so — 'tis not a broken chain : thy memory 




binds them still, 




Thou holy hearth of other days ! though silent 


■ 


now and chill. 




The smiles, the tears, the rites, beheld by thine 


THE FORSAKEN HEARTH. 


attesting stone, 




Have yet a living power to mark thy children for 




thine own. 


" Was mir fehlt ?— Mir fehlt ja alles, - 




Bin so ganz verlassen hier ! " 




Tvrolese Melody. 


The father's voice, the mother's prayer, though 




call'd from earth away, 


The Hearth, the Hearth is desolate ! the fire is 


With music rising from the dead, their spirits yet 


quench'd and gone 


shall sway ; 


That into happy children's eyes once brightly 


And by the past, and by the grave, the parted yet 


laughing shone ; 


are one, 


The place where mirth and music met is hush'd 


Though the loved hearth be desolate, the bright 


through day and night. 


fire quench'd and gone ! 


Oh ! for one kind, one sunny face, of all that there 




made light ! 






THE DREAMER. 


But scatter'd are those pleasant smiles afar by 




mount and shore 


" There is no such thing as forgetting, possible to the mind ; a thou- 




sand accidents may, and will, interpose a veil between our present con- 


Like gleaming waters from one spring dispersed 


sciousness and the secret inscription on the mind ; but alike, whether 


to meet no more. 


veiled or unveiled, the inscription remains for ever." 




English Opium-Eatee. 


Those kindred eyes reflect not now each other's 


"Thou hast been call'd, sleep ! the friend of woe, 


joy or mirth, 


But 'tis the happy who have call'd thee so." Southey. 


Unbound is that sweet wreath of home— alas ! 


Peace to thy dreams ' thou art slumbering now — 


the lonely hearth ! 


The moonlight's calm is upon thy brow ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



381 



All the deep love that o'erflows thy breast 
Lies midst the hush of thy heart at rest — 
Like the scent of a flower in its folded bell, 
When eve through the woodlands hath sigh'd fare- 
well. 

Peace ! The sad memories that through the day 
With a weight on thy lonely bosom lay, 
The sudden thoughts of the changed and dead, 
That bow'd thee as winds bow the willow's head, 
The yearnings for faces and voices gone — 
All are forgotten ! Sleep on, sleep on ! 

Are they forgotten 1 It is not so ! 
Slumber divides not the heart from its woe. 
E'en now o'er thine aspect swift changes pass, 
Like lights and shades over wavy grass : 
Tremblest thou, Dreamer % love and grief ! 
Ye have storms that shake e'en the closed-up 
leaf! 

On thy parted lips there's a quivering thrill, 

As on a lyre ere its chords are still ; 

On the long silk lashes that fringe thine eye, 

There's a large tear gathering heavily — 

A rain from the clouds of thy spirit press'd : 

Sorrowful Dreamer ! this is not rest ! 

It is Thought at work amidst buried hours — 
It is Love keeping vigil o'er perish'd flowers. 
— Oh, we bear within us mysterious things ! 
Of Memory and Anguish, unfathom'd springs ; 
And Passion — those gulfs of the heart to fill 
With bitter waves, which it ne'er may still. 

Well might we pause ere we gave them sway, 

Flinging the peace of our couch away ! 

Well might we look on our souls in fear — 

They find no fount of oblivion here ! 

They forget not, the mantle of sleep beneath — 

How know we if under the wings of death 1 



THE WINGS OF THE DOVE. 



" Oh, that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly away 
and be at rest." — Psalm Iv. 



Oh, for thy wings, thou dove ! 
Nov/ sailing by with sunshine on thy breast ; 

That, borne like thee above, 
I too might flee away, and be at rest ! 



Where wilt thou fold those plumes, 
Bird of the forest-shadows, holiest bird 1 

In what rich leafy glooms, 
By the sweet voice of hidden waters stirr'd ! 

Over what blessed home, 
What roof with dark, deep summer foliage crown'd, 

fair as ocean's foam ! 
Shall thy bright bosom shed a gleam around 1 

Or seek'st thou some old shrine 
Of nymph or saint, no more by votary woo'd, 

Though still, as if divine, 
Breathing a spirit o'er the solitude ? 

Yet wherefore ask thy way 1 
Blest, ever blest, whate'er its aim, thou art ! 

Unto the greenwood spray, 
Bearing no dark remembrance at thy heart ! 

No echoes that will blend 
A sadness with the whispers of the grove ; 

No memory of a friend 
Far off, or dead, or changed to thee, thou dove ! 

Oh ! to some cool recess 
Take, take me with thee on the summer wind, 

Leaving the weariness 
And all the fever of this life behind : 

The aching and the void 
Within the heart, whereunto none reply, 

The young bright hopes destroy'd — 
Bird ! bear me with thee through the sunny sky ! 

Wild wish, and longing vain, 
And brief upspringing to be glad and free ! 

Go to thy woodland reign : 
My soul is bound and held — I may not flee. 

For even by all the fears [unknown, 

And thoughts that haunt my dreams — untold, 

And burning woman's tears, 
Pour'd from mine eyes in silence and alone ; 

Had I thy wings, thou dove ! 
High midst the gorgeous isles of cloud to soar, 

Soon the strong cords of love 
Would draw me earthwards — homewards — yet 
once more. 



382 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


PSYCHE BORNE BY ZEPHYRS TO THE 


On, on we toil, allured by dreams 


ISLAND OF PLEASURE. 1 


Of the living water's flow : 


" Souvent 1'ame, fortifiee par la contemplation des choses divines, 


We pine for kindred natures 


voudroit deployer ses ailes vers le ciel. Elle croit qu'au terme de sa 


To mingle with our own ; 


carriere un rideau va se lever pour lui decouvrir des scenes de lumiere : 


mais quand la mort touche son corps perissable, elle jette un regard en 


For communings more full and high 


arriere vers les plaisirs terrestres et vers ses compagnes mortelles." 

Schlegel, translated by Madame de Stael. 


Than aught by mortal known : 


Fearfully and mournfully 


We strive with brief aspirings 


Thou bidd'st the earth farewell ; 


Against our bonds in vain ; 


And yet thou'rt passing, loveliest one ! 


Yet summon'd to be free at last, 


In a brighter land to dwell. 


We shrink — and clasp our chain ; 


Ascend, ascend rejoicing ! 


And fearfully and mournfully 


The sunshine of that shore 


We bid the earth farewell, 


Around thee, as a glorious robe, 


Though passing from its mists, like thee, 


Shall stream for evermore. 


In a brighter world to dwell. 


The bree2y music wandering 





There through th' Elysian sky, 




Hath no deep tone that seems to float 


THE BOON OF MEMORY. 


From a happier time gone by. 


" Many things answered me." — Manfred. 


And there the day's last crimson 


I go, I go ! — and must mine image fade 


Gives no sad memories birth, 


From the green spots wherein my childhood play'd, 


No thought of dead or distant friends, 


By my own streams ? 


Or partings — as on earth. 


Must my life part from each familiar place, 




As a bird's song, that leaves the woods no trace 


Yet fearfully and mournfully 


Of its lone themes ? 


Thou bidd'st that earth farewell, 




Although thou'rt passing, loveliest one ! 


Will the friend pass my dwelling, and forget 


In a brighter land to dwell. 


The welcomes there, the hours when we have met 




In grief or glee 1 


A land where all is deathless — ■ 


All the sweet counsel, the communion high, 


The sunny wave's repose, 


The kindly words of trust, in days gone by, 


The wood with its rich melodies, 


Pour'd full and free ') 


The summer and its rose : 






A boon, a talisman, Memory ! give, 


A land that sees no parting, 


To shrine my name in hearts where I would live 


That hears no sound of sighs, 


For evermore ! 


That waits thee with immortal air — 


Bid the wind speak of me where I have dwelt, 


Lift, lift those anxious eyes ! 


Bid the stream's voice, of all my soul hath felt, 




A thought restore ! 


Oh ! how like thee, thou trembler ! 




Man's spirit fondly clings 


In the rich rose, whose bloom I loved so well, 


With timid love, to this, its world 


In the dim brooding violet of the dell, 


Of old familiar things ! 


Set deep that thought ; 




And let the sunset's melancholy glow, 


We pant, we thirst for fountains 


And let the spring's first whisper, faint and low, 


That gush not here below ! 


With me be fraught ! 


1 Written for a picture in which Psyche, on her flight 
upwards, is represented looking back sadly and anxiously to 


And Memory answer'd me : — "Wild wish, and vain! 
I have no hues the loveliest to detain 


the earth. 


In the heart's core. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



383 



The place they held in bosoms all their own, 
Soon with new shadows fill'd,ne w flowers o'ergrown, 
Is theirs no more." 

Hast thou such power, Love? And Love replied : 
— " It is not mine ! Pour out thy soul's full tide 

Of hope and trust, 
Prayer, tear, devotedness, that boon to gain — 
Tis but to write, with the heart's fiery rain, 

Wild words on dust ! " 

Song, is the gift with thee ] I ask a lay, 
Soft, fervent, deep, that will not pass away 

From the still breast ; 
Fill'd with a tone — oh ! not for deathless fame, 
But a sweet haunting murmur of my name, 

Where it would rest. 



DRAMATIC SCENE BETWEEN BRON- 
WYLFA AND RHYLLON. 

[In the spring of 1825, Mrs Hemans removed from Bron- 
wylfa to Rhyllon, another house belonging to her brother, 
not more than a quarter of a mile from the former place, and 
in full view from its windows. The distance being so incon- 
siderable, this could, in fact, scarcely be considered as a re- 
moval. The two houses, each situated on an eminence on 
opposite sides of the river Clwyd, confronted each other so 
conveniently, that a telegraphic communication was esta- 
blished between them, (by means of a regular set of signals 
and vocabulary, similar to those made use of in the navy,) 
and was carried on for a season with no little spirit, greatly to 
the amusement of their respective inhabitants. 

Nothing could be less romantic than the outward ap- 
pearance of Mrs Hemans's new residence — a tall, staring 
brick house, almost destitute of trees, and unadorned (far, 
indeed, from being thus " adorned the most ") by the cover- 
ing mantle of honeysuclde, jessamine, or any such charitable 
drapery. 1 Bronwylfa, on the contrary, was a perfect bower 
of roses, and peeped out like a bird's nest from amidst the 
foliage in which it was embosomed. The contrast between 
the two dwellings was thus playfully descanted upon by Mrs 
Hemans, in her contribution to a set ofjeux d' esprit, called 
the Bronwylfa Budget for 1825.— Memoir, p. 87-88.] 

Bronwylfa, 2 after standing for some time in silent 
contemplation of Rhyllon, breaks out into the fol- 
lowing vehement strain of vituperation. 

You ugliest of fabrics ! you horrible eye-sore ! 
I wish you would vanish, or put on a visor ! 

1 Its conspicuousness has since been a good deal modified 
by the lowering of one story, and by the growth of the sur- 
rounding plantations. 

2 Bronwylfa is pronounced as written Bronwylva ; and 
perhaps the nearest English approach to the pronunciation of 



In the face of the sun, without covering or rag on, 
You stand and out-stare me, like any red dragon. 
With your great green-eyed windows, in boldness 

a host, [boast,) 

(The only green things which, indeed, you can 
With your forehead as high, and as bare as the pate 
Which an eagle once took for a stone or a slate, 3 
You lift yourself up, o'er the country afar, 
As who would say, " Look at me ! — here stands 

great R ! " 
I plant — I rear forest trees — shrubs great and small, 
To wrap myself up in — you peer through them all ! 
With your lean scraggy neck o'er my poplars you 

rise ; [eyes. 

You watch all my guests with your wide saucer 

(In a paroxysm of rage) 
You monster ! I would I could waken some morning, 
And find you had taken French leave without 

warning ; 
You should never be sought like Aladdin's famed 

palace. 
You spoil my sweet temper — you make me bear 

malice : 
For it is a hard fate, I will say it and sing, 
Which has fix'd me to gaze on so frightful a thing. 

Rhyllon — (with dignified equanimity.) 
Content thee, Bronwylfa, what means all this rage? 
This sudden attack on my quiet old age 1 
I am no parvenu : you and I, my good brother, 
Have stood here this century facing each other ; 
And / can remember the days that are gone, 
When your sides were no better array'd than my 

own. 
Nay, the truth shall be told — since you flout me, 

restore 
The tall scarlet woodbine you took from my door ! 
Since my baldness is mocked, and I'm forced to 

explain, 
Pray give me my large laurustinus again. 
(With a tone of prophetic solemnity.) 
Bronwylfa ! Bronwylfa ! thus insolent grown, 
Your pride and your poplars alike must come down ! 
I look through the future (and far I can see, 
As St Asaph and Denbigh will answer for me,) 
And in spite of thy scorn, and of all thou hast done, 
From my kind heart's brick bottom, I pity thee, 

Bron ! 
The end of thy toiling and planting will be, 
That thou wilt want sunshine, and ask it of me. 

Rhyllon, would be by supposing it to be spelt Ruthin, the u 
sounded as in but. 

3 Bronwylfa is here supposed to allude to the pate of 
iEschylus, upon which an eagle dropped a tortoise to crack 
the shell. 



384 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Thou wilt say, when thou wakest, looking out for 

the light, 
"I suppose it is morning, for Rhyllon looks bright;" 
While I— my green eyes with their tears overflow. 

(Tenderly.) 
Come ! — let us be friends, as we were long ago." 

[In spite, however, of the unromantic exterior of her new 
abode, the earlier part of Mrs Hemans's residence at Rhyllon 
may, perhaps, be considered as the happiest of her life ; as 
far, at least, as the term happiness could ever be fitly applied 
to any period of it later than childhood. The house, with all 
its ugliness, was large and convenient, the view from its win- 
dows beautiful and extensive, and its situation, on a fine 
green slope, terminating in a pretty woodland dingle, pecu- 
liarly healthy and cheerful. Never, perhaps, had she more 
thorough enjoyment of her boys than in witnessing, and often 
joining in, their sports in those pleasant breezy fields, where 
the kites soared so triumphantly, and the hoops trundled so 
merrily, and where the cowslips grew as cowslips had never 
grown before. An atmosphere of home soon gathered round 
the dwelling ; roses were planted and honeysuckles trained, 
and the rustling of the solitary poplar near her window was 
taken to her heart like the voice of a friend. The dingle be- 
came a favourite haunt, where she would pass many dream- 
like hours of enjoyment with her books, and her own sweet 
fancies, and her children playing around her. Every tree 
and flower, and tuft of moss that sprang amidst its green ■ 
recesses, was invested with some individual charm by that rich 
imagination, so skilled in 

*' Clothing the palpable and the familiar 
With golden exhalations of the dawn." 

Here, on what the boys would call * mamma's sofa '—a 
little grassy mound under her favourite beech-tree— she first 
read The Talisman, and has described the scene with a loving 
minuteness in her Hour of Romance: — 

" There were thiok leaves above me and around, 

And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood's sleep, 
Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound 
As of soft showers on water. Dark and deep 



Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf— so still 

They seem'd but pictured glooms ; a hidden rill 

Made music— such as haunts us in a dream — 

Under the fern-tufts ; and a tender gleam 

Of soft green light, as by the glow-worm shed, 

Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs down." 

Many years after, in the sonnet " To a Distant Scene,' 
she addresses, with a fond yearning, this well-remembered 
haunt : — 

" Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing, 
O far-off grassy dell ! " 

How many precious memories has she hung round the 
thought of the cowslip — that flower, with its " gold coat" and 
" fairy favours," which is, of all others, so associated with the 
" voice of happy childhood," and was to her ever redolent of 
the hours when her 

" Heart so leapt to that sweet laughter's tone ! " 

Another favourite resort was the picturesque old bridge 
over the Clwyd, and when her health (which was subject to 
continual variation, but was at this time more robust than 
usual) admitted of more aspiring achievements, she delighted 
in roaming to the hills ; and the announcement of a walk to 
Cwm, 1 a remote little hamlet, nestled in a mountain hollow, 
amidst very lovely sylvan scenery, about two miles from 
Rhyllon, would be joyously echoed by her elated companions, 
to whom the recollection of these happy rambles must always 
be unspeakably dear. Very often, at the outset of these ex- 
peditions, the party would be reinforced by the addition of a 
certain little Kitty Jones, a child from a neighbouring cot- 
tage, who had taken an especial fancy to Mrs Hemans, and 
was continually watching her movements. This little creature 
never saw her without at once attaching herself to her side, 
and confidingly placing its tiny hand in hers. So great was 
her love for children, and her repugnance to hurt the feelings 
of any living creature, that she never would shake off this 
singular appendage, but let little Kitty rejoice in her " pride of 
place," till the walk became too long for her capacity, and 
she would quietly fall behind of her own accord. — Memoir, 
p. 87-93.] 

1 Pronounced " Coom." 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



385 



KECOKDS OF WOMAN, 



MRS JOANNA BAILLIE, 

THIS VOLUME, AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF GRATEFUL RESPECT AND ADMIRATION, 



IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR. 



" Mightier far 
Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway 
Of magic, potent over sun and star, 
Is love, though oft to agony distrest, 
And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's breast. 

Das ist sas Loos des Schonen auf der erde." 



Wordsworth. 



Schiller. 



AEABELLA STUART. 

["The Lady Arabella," as she has been frequently 
entitled, was descended from Margaret, eldest daughter of 
Henry VII. , and consequently allied by birth to Elizabeth as 
well as James I. This affinity to the throne proved the mis- 
fortune of her life, as the jealousies which it constantly ex- 
cited in her royal relatives, who were anxious to prevent her 
marrying, shut her out from the enjoyment of that domestic 
happiness which her heart appears to have so fervently 
desired. By a secret but early discovered union with William 
Seymour, son of Lord Beauchamp, she alarmed the cabinet 
of James, and the wedded lovers were immediately placed in 
separate confinement. From this they found means to con- 
cert a romantic plan of escape ; and having won over a female 
attendant, by whose assistance she was disguised in male 
attire, Arabella, though faint from recent sickness and suffer- 
ing, stole out in the night, and at last reached an appointed 
spot, where a boat and servants were in waiting. She em- 
barked ; and at break of day a French vessel engaged to 
receive her was discovered and gained. As Seymour, how- 
ever, had not yet arrived, she was desirous that the vessel 
should lie at anchor for him ; but this wish was overruled by 
her companions, who, contrary to her entreaties, hoisted sail, 
" which," says DTsraeli, " occasioned so fatal a termination 
to this romantic adventure. Seymour, indeed, had escaped 
from the Tower ; he reached the wharf, and found his con- 
fidential man waiting with a boat, and arrived at Lee. The 
time passed ; the waves were rising ; Arabella was not there ; 
but in the distance he descried a vessel. Hiring a fisherman 
to take him on board, he discovered, to his grief, on hailing it, 
that it was not the French ship charged with his Arabella ; in 
despair and confusion he found another ship from Newcastle, 
which for a large sum altered its course, and landed him in 
Flanders." Arabella, meantime, whilst imploring her atten- 
dants to linger, and earnestly looking out for the expected 
boat of her husband, was overtaken in Calais Roads by a 
vessel in the king's service, and brought back to a captivity, 

[} " The little volume, 'Records of Woman,' which you 
kindly gave me permission to inscribe to you," wrote Mrs H. to 
Mrs Joanna Baillie, " is now in the press, and I hope I shall 
soon be able to send you a copy ; and that the dedication, 
which is in the simplest form, will be honoured by your 
approval. Mr Blackwood is its publisher." 

Mrs Hemans always spoke with pleasure of her literary in- 
tercourse with Mr Blackwood, in whose dealings she recog- 



under the suffering of which her mind and constitution gra- 
dually sank. " What passed in that dreadful imprisonment 
cannot perhaps be recovered for authentic history, but enough 
is known — that her mind grew impaired, that she finally lost 
her reason, and, if the duration of her imprisonment was 
short, that it was only terminated by her death. Some effu- 
sions, often begun and never ended, written and erased, in- 
coherent and rational, yet remain among her papers."— 
D'Israeli's Curiosities of Literature. 

The following poem, meant as some record of her fate, and 
the imagined fluctuations of her thoughts and feelings, is 
supposed to commence during the time of her first imprison- 
ment, whilst her mind was yet buoyed up by the conscious- 
ness of Seymour's affection , and the cherished hope of even- 
tual deliverance,] 

"And is not love in vain 
Torture enough without a living tomb ? " Byron. 

" Fermossi al fin il cor che balzo tanto." Pindemontk, 



Twas but a dream ! I saw the stag leap free, 

Under the boughs where early birds were singing; 
I stood o'ershadow'd by the greenwood tree, 

And heard, it seem'd, a sudden bugle ringing 
Far through a royal forest. Then the fawn 
Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawn 
To secret covert ; and the smooth turf shook, 
And lilies quiver'd by the glade's lone brook, 
And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career, 
A princely band, with horn, and hound, and spear, 
Like a rich masque swept forth. I saw the dance 
Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance 
Into the deep wood's heart ; and all pass'd by 
Save one — I met the smile of one clear eye, 

nised all that uprightness and liberality which belonged to the 
sterling worth of his character. The " Records of Woman," 
the first of her works published by him, was brought out in 
May 1828. This volume was, to use the words of its author, 
the one in which " she had put her heart and individual feel- 
ings more than in any thing else she had written ; " and it is 
also, and perhaps consequently, the one which has held its 
ground the most steadily in public favour.— Memoir, p. 136,} 



RECORDS OF WOMAN". 



Flashing out joy to mine. Yes, thou wert there, 
Seymour ! A soft wind blew the clustering hair 
Back from thy gallant brow, as thou didst rein 
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train, 
And fling, methought, thy hunting spear away, 
And, lightly graceful in thy green array, 
Bound to my side. And we, that met and parted 

Ever in dread of some dark watchful power, 
Won back to childhood's trust, and fearless- 
hearted, 

Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that hour 
Even like the mingling of sweet streams, beneath 
Dim woven leaves, and midst the floating breath 
Of hidden forest-flowers. 



Tis past ! I wake, 
A captive, and alone, and far from thee, 
My love and friend ! Yet fostering, for thy sake, 

A quenchless hope of happiness to be ; 
And feeling still my woman-spirit strong, 
In the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrong 
A heavenward glance. I know, I know our love 
Shall yet call gentle angels from above, 
By its undying fervour, and prevail — 
Sending a breath, as of the spring's first gale, [face, 
Through hearts now cold; and, raising its bright 
With a free gush of sunny tears, erase 
The characters of anguish. In this trust, 
I bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust, 
That I may bring thee back no faded form, 
No bosom chill'd and blighted by the storm, 
But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet, 
Making past sorrow, by communion, sweet. 

in. 

And thou too art in bonds ! Yet droop thou not, 
my beloved ! there is one hopeless lot, 
But one, and that not ours. Beside the dead 
There sits the grief that mantles up its head, 
Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light, 
When darkness, from the vainly doting sight 
Covers its beautiful I 1 If thou wert gone 

To the grave's bosom, with thy radiant brow — 
If thy deep-thrilling voice, with that low tone 

Of earnest tenderness, which now, even now 
Seems floating through my soul, were music taken 
For ever from this world — oh ! thus forsaken 
Could I bear on 1 Thou livest, thou livest, thou'rt 

mine ! 
With this glad thought I make my heart a shrine, 

1 " Wheresoever you are, or in what state soever you be, 
it sufficeth me you are mine. Rachel wept and would not be 
comforted, because her children were no more. And that 



And by thelamp which quenchless there shallburn, 
Sit a lone watcher for the day's return. 



And lo ! the joy that cometh with the morning, 

Brightly victorious o'er the hours of care ! 
I have not watch'd in vain, serenely scorning 

The wild and busy whispers of despair ! 
Thou hast sent tidings, as of heaven — I wait 

The hour, the sign, for blessed flight to thee. 
Oh ! for the skylark's wing that seeks its mate 

As a star shoots ! — but on the breezy sea 
We shall meet soon. To think of such an hour ! 

Will not my heart, o'erburden'd by its bliss, 
Faint and give way within me, as a flower 

Borne down and perishing by noontide's kiss 1 
Yet shall I fear that lot — the perfect rest, 
The full deep joy of dying on thy breast, 
After long suffering won ] So rich a close 
Too seldom crowns with peace affection's woes. 



Sunset ! I tell each moment. From the skies 
The last red splendour floats along my wall, 
Like a king's banner ! Now it melts, it dies ! 
I see one star — I hear — 'twas not the call, 
Th' expected voice ; my quick heart throbb'd too 

soon. 
I must keep vigil till yon rising moon 
Shower down less goldenlight. Beneath her beam 
Through my lone lattice pour'd, I sit and dream 
Of summer lands afar, where holy love, 
Under the vine or in the citron grove, 
May breathe from terror. 

Now the night grows deep, 
And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep. 
I hear my veins beat. Hark! a bell's slow chime ! 
My heart strikes with it. Yet again — 'tis time ! 
A step ! — a voice ! — or but a rising breeze ] 
Hark ! — haste ! — I come to meet thee on the seas! 



Now never more, oh ! never, in the worth 
Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth 
Trust fondly — never more ! The hope is crush'd 
That lit my life, the voice within me hush'd 
That spoke sweet oracles ; and I return 
To lay my youth, as in a burial urn, 
Where sunshine may not find it. All is lost ! 
No tempest met our barks — no billow toss'd ; 

indeed, is the remediless sorrow, and none else ! " — From a 
letter of Arabella Stuart's to her husband.— See Curiosities 
of Literature. 



ARABELLA STUART. 



387 



Yet were they sever' d, even as we must be, 
That so have loved, so striven our hearts to free 
From their close-coiling fate ! In vain — in vain ! 
The dark links meet, and clasp themselves again, 
And press out life. Upon the deck I stood, 
And a white sail came gliding o'er the flood, 
Like some proud bird of ocean ; then mine eye 
Strain'd out, one moment earlier to descry 
The form it ached for, and the bark's career 
Seem'd slow to that fond yearning : it drew near, 
Fraught with our foes ! What boots it to recall 
The strife, the tears 1 Once more a prison wall 
Shuts the green hills and woodlands from my sight, 
And joyous glance of waters to the light, 
And thee, my Seymour ! — thee ! 

I will not sink ! [thee ! 

Thou, thou hast rent the heavy chain that bound 
And this shall be my strength — the joy to think 

That thou may'st wander with heaven's breath 
around thee, 
And all the laughing sky ! This thought shall yet 
Shine o'er my heart a radiant amulet, 
Guarding it from despair. Thy bonds are broken ; 
And unto me, I know, thy true love's token 
Shall one day be deliverance, though the years 
Lie dim between, o'erhung with mists of tears. 



My friend! my friend! where art thou 1 Day by day, 
Gliding like some dark mournful stream away, 
My silent youth flows from me. Spring, the while, 

Comes and rains beauty on the kindling boughs 
Round hall and hamlet ; summer with her smile 

Fills the green forest; young hearts breathe their 
vows; 
Brothers long parted meet ; fair children rise 
Round the glad board; hope laughs from loving eyes: 
All this is in the world ! — these joys lie sown, 
The dew of every path ! On one alone 
Their freshness may not fall — the stricken deer 
Dying of thirst with all the waters near. 



Ye are from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers ! 

By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon sent; 
O'er you the oak shed down the summer showers, 

And the lark's nest was where your bright cups 
bent, 
Quivering to breeze and raindrop, like the sheen 
Of twilight stars. On you heaven's eye hath been, 
Through the leaves pouring its dark sultry blue 
Into your glowing hearts ; the bee to you 
Hath murmur' d, and the rill. My soul grows faint 
With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams paint 



Your haunts by dell and stream — the green, the free, 
The full of all sweet sound — the shut from me ! 



There went a swift bird singing past my cell 

Love and Freedom ! ye are lovely things ! 
With you the peasant on the hills may dwell, 

And by the streams. But I — the blood of kings, 
A proud unmingling river, through my veins 
Flows in lone brightness, and its gifts are chains ! 
Kings ! — I had silent visions of deep bliss, 
Leaving their thrones far distant ; and for this 
I am cast under their triumphal car, 
An insect to be crush'd ! Oh ! heaven is far — 
Earth pitiless ! 

Dost thou forget me, Seymour ? I am proved 
So long, so sternly ! Seymour, my beloved ! 
There are such tales of holy marvels done 
By strong affection, of deliverance won 
Through its pre vailing power ! Are these things told 
Till the young weep with rapture, and the old 
Wonder, yet dare not doubt; and thou ! oh, thou ! 

Dost thou forget me in my hope's decay 1 — 
Thou canst not ! Through the silent night, even 
now, 

I, that need prayer so much, awake and pray 
Still first for thee. gentle, gentle friend ! 
How shall I bear this anguish to the end? 

Aid ! — comes there yet no aid 1 The voice of blood 
Passes heaven's gate, even ere the crimson flood 
Sinks through the greensward ! Is there not a cry 
From the wrung heart, of power, through agony, 
To pierce the clouds 1 Hear, Mercy ! — hear me ! 

None 
That bleed and weep beneath the smiling sun 
Have heavier cause ! Yet hear ! — my soul grows 

dark ! 

Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark 
On the mid seas, and with the storm alone, 
And bearing to the abyss, unseen, unknown, 
Its freight of human hearts 1 Th' o'ermastering 

wave ! 
Who shall tell how it rush'd — and none to save ! 

Thou hast forsaken me ! I feel, I know, 
There would be rescue if this were not so. 
Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board, 
Thou'rt where the red wine free and high is pour'd, 
Thou'rt where the dancers meet ! A magic glass 
Is set within my soul, and proud shapes pass, 
Flushing it o'er with pomp from bower and hall : 
I see one shadow, stateliest there of all — 



388 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



TJiine 1 What dost thou amidst the bright and fair, 
Whispering light words, and mocking my despair? 
It is not well of thee ! My love was more 
Than fiery song may breathe, deep thought explore ; 
And there thou smilest, while my heart is dying, 
With all its blighted hopes around it lying : 
Even thou, on whom they hung their last green 

leaf 

Yet smile, smile on ! too bright art thou for grief ! 

Death ! What ! is death a lock'd and treasured 

thing, 
Guarded by swords of fire? 1 a hidden spring, 
A fabled fruit, that I should thus endure, 
As if the world within me held no cure 1 
Wherefore not spread free wings Heaven, 

heaven ! control 
These thoiights ! — they rush — I look into my soul 
As down a gulf, and tremble at the array 
Of fierce forms crowding it ! Give strength to pray ! 
So shall their dark host pass. 

The storm is still'd. 

Father in Heaven ! thou, only thou, canst sound 
The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish fill'd, 

For human line too fearfully profound. 
Therefore, forgive, my Father ! if thy child, 
Eock'd on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild, 
And sinn'd in her despair ! It well may be 
That thou wouldst lead my spirit back to thee, 
By the crush'd hope too long on this world pour'd — 
The stricken love which hath perchance adored 
A mortal in thy place ! Now let me strive 
With thy strong arm no more ! Fot^give, forgive ! 
Take me to peace ! 

And peace at last is nigh. 
A sign is on my brow, a token sent 
Th' o'erwearied dust from home : no breeze flits by, 
But calls me with a strange sweet whisper, blent 
Of many mysteries. 

Hark ! the warning tone 
Deepens — its word is Death / Alone, alone, 
And sad in youth, but chasten'd, I depart, 
Bowing to heaven. Yet, yet my woman's heart 
Shall wake a spirit and a power to bless, 
Even in this hour's o'ershadowing fearfulness, 
Thee, its first love ! tender still, and true ! 
Be it forgotten if mine anguish threw 
Drops from its bitter fountain on thy name, 
Though but a moment ! 

1 " And if you remember of old, I dare die. Consider 
what the world would conceive if I should be violently en- 
forced to do it." — Fragments of her Letters. 



ISTow, with fainting frame, 
With soul just lingering on the flight begun, 
To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one, 
I bless thee ! Peace be on thy noble head, 
Years of bright fame, when I am with the dead ! 
I bid this prayer survive me, and retain 
Its might, again to bless thee, and again ! 
Thou hast been gather'd into my dark fate 
Too much ; too long, for my sake, desolate 
Hath been thine exiled youth : but now take back, 
From dying hands, thy freedom, and retrack 
(After a few kind tears for her whose days 
Went out in dreams of thee) the sunny ways 
Of hope, and find thou happiness ! Yet send 
Even then, in silent hours, a thought, dear friend ! 
Down to my voiceless chamber ; for thy love 
Hath been to me all gifts of earth above, 
Though bought with burning tears ! It is the sting 
Of death to leave that vainly-precious thing 
In this cold world ! What were it, then, if thou, 
With thy fond eyes, wert gazing on me now 1 
Too keen a pang ! Farewell ! and yet once more, 
Farewell ! The passion of long years I pour 
Into that word ! Thou hear'st not — but the woe 
And fervour of its tones may one day flow 
To thy heart's holy place : there let them dwell. 
We shall o'ersweep the grave to meet. Farewell ! 



THE BRIDE OF THE GREEK ISLE. 1 



Tear ! I 'm a Greek, and how should I fear death ? 
A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom ? 



I will not live degraded." 



Sardanapalus. 



Come from the woods with the citron-flowers, 
Come with your lyres for the festal hours, 
Maids of bright Scio ! They came, and the breeze 
Bore their sweet songs o'er the Grecian seas ; 
They came, and Eudora stood robed and crown'd, 
The bride of the morn, with her train around. 
Jewels flash'd out from her braided hair, 
Like starry dews midst the roses there ; 
Pearls on her bosom quivering shone, 
Heaved by her heart through its golden zone. 
But a brow, as those gems of the ocean pale, 
Gleam'd from beneath her transparent veil ; 
Changeful and faint was her fair cheek's hue. 
Though clear as a flower which the light looks 
through ; 

2 Founded on a circumstance related in the Second Series 
of the Curiosities of Literature, and forming part of a picture 
in the " Painted Biography " there described. 



THE BRIDE OF THE GREEK ISLE. 



389 



And the glance of her dark resplendent eye, 
For the aspect of woman at times too high, 
Lay floating in mists, which the troubled stream 
Of the soul sent up o'er its fervid beam. 

She look'd on the vine at her father's door, 

Like one that is leaving his native shore ; 

She hung o'er the myrtle once call'd her own, 

As it greenly waved by the threshold stone ; 

She turn'd — and her mother's gaze brought back 

Each hue of her childhood's faded track. 

Oh ! hush the song, and let her tears 

Flow to the dream of her early years ! 

Holy and pure are the drops that fall 

When the young bride goes from her father's hall; 

She goes unto love yet untried and new, 

She parts from love which hath still been true : 

Mute be the song and the choral strain, 

Till her heart's deep well-spring is clear again ! 

She wept on her mother's faithful breast, 

Like a babe that sobs itself to rest ; 

She wept — yet laid her hand awhile 

In his that waited her dawning smile — 

Her soul's affianced, nor cherish'd less 

For the gush of nature's tenderness ! 

She lifted her graceful head at last — 

The choking swell of her heart was past ; 

And her lovely thoughts from their cells found way 

In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay. 1 

i A 

THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL. w f 

Why do I weep ? To leave the vine 

Whose clusters o'er me bend ; 
The myrtle — yet, oh call it mine ! — 

The flowers I loved to tend. 
A thousand thoughts of all things dear 

Like shadows o'er me sweep ; 
I leave my sunny childhood here, 

Oh ! therefore let me weep ! 

I leave thee, sister ! We have play'd 

Through many a joyous hour, 
Where the silvery green of the olive shade 

Hung dim o'er fount and bower. 
Yes ! thou and I, by stream, by shore, 

In song, in prayer, in sleep, 
Have been as we may be no more — 

Kind sister, let me weep ! 

I leave thee, father ! Eve's bright moon 
Must now light other feet, 

1 A Greek bride, on leaving her father's house, takes leave of 
her friends and relatives frequently in extemporaneous verses. 
— See Fauriel's Cliants Populaires de la Grece Modcrne. 



With the gather'd grapes, and the lyre in tune, 

Thy homeward step to greet. 
Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child, 

Lay tones of love so deep, 
Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled — 

I leave thee ! let me weep ! 

Mother ! I leave thee ! On thy breast 

Pouring out joy and woe, 
I have found that holy place of rest 

Still changeless — yet I go ! 
Lips, that have lull'd me with your strain ! 

Eyes, that have watch'd my sleep ! 
Will earth give love like yours again 1 — 

Sweet mother ! let me weep ! 

And like a slight young tree, that throws 
The weight of rain from its drooping boughs, 
Once more she wept. But a changeful thing 
Is the human heart — as a mountain spring 
That works its way, through the torrent's foam, 
To the bright pool near it, the lily's home ! 
It is well ! — The cloud on her soul that lay, 
Hath melted in glittering drops away. 
Wake again, mingle, sweet flute and lyre ! 
She turns to her lover, she leaves her sire. 
Mother ! on earth it must still be so : 
Thou rearest the lovely to see them go ! 

They are moving onward, the bridal throng, 
Ye may track their way by the swells of song ; 
Ye may catch through the foliage their white robes' 

gleam, 
Like a swan midst the reeds of a shadowy stream; 
Their arms bear up garlands, their gliding tread 
Is over the deep-vein'd violet's bed ; [above, 

They have light leaves around them, blue skies 
An arch for the triumph of youth and love ! 



Still and sweet was the home that stood 
In the flowering depths of a Grecian wood, 
With the soft green light o'er its low roof spread, 
As if from the glow of an emerald shed, 
Pouring through lime-leaves that mingled on high, 
Asleep in the silence of noon's clear sky. 
Citrons amidst their dark foliage glow'd, 
Making a gleam round the lone abode ; 
Laurels o'erhung it, whose faintest shiver 
Scatter'd out rays like a glancing river; 
Stars of the jasmine its pillars crown'd, 
Vine-stalks its lattice and walls had bound ; 
And brightly before it a fountain's play 
Flung showers through a thicket of glossy bay, 



390 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



To a cypress which rose in that flashing rain, 
Like one tall shaft of some fallen fane. 

And thither Ianthis had brought his bride, 
And the guests were met by that fountain side. 
They lifted the veil from Eudora's face — 
It smiled out softly in pensive grace, 
With lips of love, and a brow serene, 
Meet for the soul of the deep wood-scene. 
Bring wine, bring odours! — the board is spread ; 
Bring roses ! a chaplet for every head ! 
The wine-cups foam'd, and the rose was shower'd 
On the' young and fair from the world embower'd; 
The sun look'd not on them in that sweet shade, 
The winds amid scented boughs were laid ; 
And there came by fits, through some wavy tree, 
A sound and a gleam of the moaning sea. 

Hush ! be still ! Was that no more 
Than the murmur from the shore 1 
Silence ! — did thick rain-drops beat 
On the grass like trampling feet 1 
Fling down the goblet, and draw the sword ! 
The groves are fill'd with a pirate horde ! 
Through the dim olives their sabres shine ! — 
Now must the red blood stream for wine ! 

The youths from the banquet to battle sprang, 
The woods with the shriek of the maidens rang; 
Under the golden-fruited boughs 
There were flashing poniards and darkening 

brows — 
Footsteps, o'er garland and lyre that fled, 
And the dying soon on a greensward bed. 
Eudora, Eudora ! thou dost not fly ! — 
She saw but Ianthis before her lie, 
With the blood from his breast in a gushing flow, 
Like a child's large tears in its hour of woe, 
And a gathering film in his lifted eye, 
That sought his young bride out mournfully. 
She knelt down beside him — her arms she wound 
Like tendrils, his drooping neck around, 
As if the passion of that fond grasp 
Might chain in life with its ivy-clasp. 
But they tore her thence in her wild despair, 
The sea's fierce rovers — they left him there : 
They left to the fountain a dark-red vein, 
And on the wet violets a pile of slain, 
And a hush of fear through the summer grove. — 
So closed the triumph of youth and love ! 

in. 
Gloomy lay the shore that night, 
When the moon, with sleeping light, 



Bathed each purple Sciote hill — 
Gloomy lay the shore, and still. 
O'er the wave no gay guitar 
Sent its floating music far ; 
No glad sound of dancing feet 
Woke the starry hours to greet. 
But a voice of mortal woe, 
In its changes wild or low, 
Through the midnight's blue repose, 
From the sea-beat rocks arose, 
As Eudora's mother stood 
Gazing o'er th' iEgean flood, 
With a fix'd and straining eye— 
Oh ! was the spoilers' vessel nigh 1 
Yes ! there, becalm'd in silent sleep, 
Dark and alone on a breathless deep, 
On a sea of molten silver, dark 
Brooding it frown'd, that evil bark ! 
There its broad pennon a shadow cast, 
Moveless and black from the tall still mast ; 
And the heavy sound of its flapping sail 
Idly and vainly woo'd the gale. 
Hush'd was all else — had ocean's breast 
Rock'd e'en Eudora that hour to rest ] 

To rest ! The waves tremble ! — what piercing cry 
Bursts from the heart of the ship on high 1 
What light through the heavens, in a sudden spire. 
Shoots from the deck up ? Fire ! 'tis fire ! 
There are wild forms hurrying to and fro, 
Seen darkly clear on that lurid glow ; 
There are shout, and signal-gun, and call, 
And the dashing of water — but fruitless all ! 
Man may not fetter, nor ocean tame 
The might and wrath of the rushing flame ! 
It hath twined the mast like a glittering snake, 
That coils up a tree from a dusky brake ; 
It hath touch'd the sails, and their canvass rolls 
Away from its breath into shrivell'd scrolls ; 
It hath taken the flag's high place in the air, 
And redden'd the stars with its wavy glare ; 
And sent out bright arrows, and soar'd in glee, 
To a burning mount midst the moonlight sea. 
The swimmers are plunging from stern and 

prow — 
Eudora ! Eudora ! where, where art thou? 
The slave and his master alike are gone. — 
Mother ! who stands on the deck alone ? 
The child of thy bosom ! — and lo ! a brand 
Blazing up high in her lifted hand ! 
And her veil flung back, and her free dark hair 
Sway'd by the flames as they rock and flare ; 
And her fragile form to its loftiest height 
Dilated, as if by the spirit's might ; 



THE SWITZER'S WIFE. 



391 



And her eye with an eagle-gladness fraught 

Oh ! could this work be of woman wrought ? 
Yes ! 'twas her deed ! — by that haughty smile, 
It was hers : she hath kindled her funeral pile ! 
Never might shame on that bright head be : 
Her blood was the Greek's, and hath made herfree ! 

Proudly she stands, like an Indian bride 

On the pyre with the holy dead beside ; 

But a shriek from her mother hath caught her ear, 

As the flames to her marriage-robe draw near, 

And starting, she spreads her pale arms in vain 

To the form they must never infold again. 

■ — One moment more, and her hands are clasp'd — 

Fallen is the torch they had wildly grasp'd — 

Her sinking knee unto Heaven is bow'd, 

And her last look raised through the smoke's dim 

shroud, 
And her lips as in prayer for her pardon move; — 
Now the night gathers o'er youth and love ! 



THE SWITZER'S WIFE. 

[Werner Stauffacher, one of the three confederates of the 
field of Grutli, had been alarmed by the envy with which the 
Austrian Bailiff, Landenberg, had noticed the appearance of 
wealth and comfort which distinguished his dwelling. It was 
not, however, until roused by the entreaties of his wife, a 
woman who seems to have been of a heroic spirit, that he was 
induced to deliberate with his friends upon the measures by 
which Switzerland was finally delivered.] 

" Nor look nor tone revealeth aught 
Save woman's quietness of thought; 
And yet around her is a light 
Of inward majesty and might." M. J. J. 

" Wer solch em herz an sienen Busen druckt 
Der kann fur herd und hof mit freuden fechten." 

Willhelm Tell. 

It was the time when children bound to meet 
Their father's homeward step from field or hill, 

And when the herd's returning bells are sweet 
In the Swiss valleys, and the lakes grow still, 

And the last note of that wild horn swells by 

Which haunts the exile's heart with melody. 

And lovely smiled full many an Alpine home, 
Touch'd with the crimson of the dying hour, 

Which lit its low roof by the torrent's foam, 
And pierced its lattice through the vine-hung 
bower ; 

But one, the loveliest o'er the land that rose, 

Then first look'd mournful in its green repose. 

For Werner sat beneath the linden tree 

That sent its lulling whispers through his door, 



Even as man sits, whose heart alone would be 

With some deep care, and thus can find no more 
Th' accustom'd joy in all which evening brings, 
Gathering a household with her quiet wings. 

His wife stood hush'd before him — sad, yet mild 
In her beseeching mien ! — he mark'd it not. 

The silvery laughter of his bright-hair'd child 
Rang from the greensward round the shelter'd 
spot, 

But seem'd unheard ; until at last the boy 

Raised from his heap'd \xp flowers a glance of joy, 

And met his father's face. But then a change 
Pass'd swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee, 

And a quick sense of something dimly strange 
Brought him from play to stand beside the knee 

So often climb'd, and lift his loving eyes 

That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise. 

Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook ; 

But tenderly his babe's fair mother laid 
Her hand on his, and with a pleading look, 

Through tears half-quivering, o'er him bent and 

said, [prey — 

" What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart its 

That thou shouldst turn thee from our love away] 

" It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend ! 

Mark'st thou the wonder on thy boy's fair brow, 
Missing the smile from thine 1 Oh, cheer thee ! 
bend 

To his soft arms : unseal thy thoughts e'en now ! 
Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share 
Of tried affection in thy secret care." 

He look'd up into that sweet earnest face, 
But sternly, mournfully : not yet the band 

Was loosen'd from his soul ; its inmost place 
Not yet unveil'd by love's o'ermastering hand. 

" Speak low ! " he cried, and pointed where on high 

The white Alps glitter'd through the solemn sky : 

" We must speak low amidst our ancient hills 
And their free torrents ; for the days are come 

When tyranny lies couch'd by forest rills, 

And meets the shepherd in his mountain-home. 

Go, pour the wine of our own grapes in fear — 

Keep silence by the hearth ! its foes are near. 

" The envy of th' oppressor's eye hath been 

Upon my heritage. I sit to-night 
Under my household tree, if not serene, 

Yet with the faces best beloved in sight : 



392 



EECOEDS OF WOMAN. 



To-morrow eve may find me chain'd, and thee — 
How can I bear the boy's young smiles to see?" 

The bright blood left thatyouthful mother's cheek; 

Back on the linden stem she lean'd her form ; 
And her lip trembled as it strove to speak, 

Like a frail harp-string shaken by the storm. 
'Twas but a moment, and the faintness pass'd, 
And the free Alpine spirit woke at last. 

And she, that ever through her home had moved 
With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile 

Of woman, calmly loving and beloved, 
And timid in her happiness the while, 

Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hour — 

Her clear glance kindling into sudden power. 

Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light, 
And took her fair child to her holy breast, 

And lifted her soft voice, that gather'd might 
As it found language : — " Are we thus oppress'd 1 

Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod, 

And man must arm, and woman call on God ! 

" I know what thou wouldst do ; — and be it done ! 

Thy soul is darken'd with its fears for me. 
Trust me to heaven, my husband ! This, thy son, 

The babe whom I have borne thee, must be free ! 
And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth 
May well give strength — if aught be strong on earth. 

" Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread 
Of my desponding tears ; now lift once more, 

My hunter of the hills ! thy stately head, 
And let thine eagle glance my joy restore ! 

I can bear all, but seeing thee subdued — 

Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood. 

" Go forth beside the waters, and along 

The chamois paths, and through the forests go; 

And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong 
To the brave hearts that midst the hamlets glow. 

God shall be with thee, my beloved ! Away ! 

Bless but thy child, and leave me — I can pray ! " ) 

He sprang up, like a warrior youth awaking 
To clarion sounds upon the ringing air ; [ing 

He caught her to his heart, while proud tears break- 
From his dark eyes fell o'er her braided hair ; 

And " Worthy art thou," was his joyous cry, 

" That man for thee should gird himself to die ! 

" My bride, my wife, the mother of my child ! 
Now shall thy name be armour to my heart : 



And this our land, by chains no more defiled, 
Be taught of thee to choose the better part ! 
I go — thy spirit on my words shall dwell : 
Thy gentle voice shall stir the Alps. Farewell ! " 

Aud thus they parted, by the quiet lake, 

In the clear starlight : he the strength to rouse 

Of the free hills ; she, thoughtful for his sake, 
To rock her child beneath the whispering boughs, 

Singing its blue half-curtain'd eyes to sleep 

With a low hymn, amidst the stillness deep. 



PKOPEEZIA EOSSI. 

[Properzia Rossi, a celebrated female sculptor of Bologna, 
possessed also of talents for poetry and music, died in conse- 
quence of an unrequited attachment. A painting, by Ducis, 
represents her showing her last work, a basso-relievo of 
Ariadne, to a Roman knight, the object of her affection, 
who regards it with indifference.] 

" Tell me no more, no more 
Of my soul's lofty gifts ! Are they not vain 
To quench its haunting thirst for happiness ? 
Have I not loved, and striven, and fail'd to bind 
One true heart unto me, whereon my own 
Might find a resting-place, a home for all 
Its burden of affections ? I depart, 
Unknown, though Fame goes with me ; I must leave 
The earth unknown. Yet it may be that death 
Shall give my name a power to win such tears 
As would have made life precious." 



One dream of passion and of beauty more ! 
And in its bright fulfilment let me pour 
My soul away ! Let earth retain a trace 
Of that which lit my being, though its race 
Might have been loftier far. Yet one more dream ! 
From my deep spirit one victorious gleam 
Ere I depart ! For thee alone, for thee ! 
May this last work, this farewell triumph be — 
Thou, loved so vainly ! I would leave enshrined 
Something immortal of my heart and mind, 
That yet may speak to thee when I am gone, 
Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone 
Of lost affection, — something that may prove 
What she hath been, whose melancholy love 
On thee was lavish'd ; silent pang and tear, 
And fervent song that gush'd when none were 

near, 
And dream by night, and weary thought by day, 
Stealing the brightness from her life away — 

While thou Awake ! not yet within me die ! 

Under the burden and the agony 

Of this vain tenderness — my spirit, wake ! 



PEOPEKZIA ROSSI. 



393 



Even for thy sorrowful affection's sake, 
Live ! in thy work breathe out ! — that he may yet, 
Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regret 
Thine unrequited gift. 



It comes ! the power 
Within me born flows back — my fruitless dower 
That could not win me love. Yet once again 
I greet it proudly, with its rushing train 
Of glorious images : they throng — they press — 
A sudden joy lights up my loneliness — 
I shall not perish all ! 

The bright work grows 
Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose, 
Leaf after leaf, to beauty — line by line, [now 

Through the pale marble's veins. It grows ! — and 
I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine : 
I give my own life's history to thy brow, 
Forsaken Ariadne ! — thou shalt wear 
My form, my lineaments ; but oh ! more fair, 
Touch'd into lovelier being by the glow 

Which in me dwells, as by the summer light 
All things are glorified. From thee my woe 

Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight, 
When I am pass'd away. Thou art the mould, 
Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th' untold, 
The self-consuming ! Speak to him of me, 
Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea, 
With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye — ■ 
Speak to him, lorn one ! deeply, mournfully, 
Of all my love and grief ! Oh ! could I throw 
Into thy frame a voice — a sweet, and low, 
And thrilling voice of song ! when he came nigh, 
To send the passion of its melody 
Through his pierced bosom — on its tones to bear 
My life's deep feeling, as the southern air 
Wafts the faint myrtle's breath— to rise, to swell, 
To sink away in accents of farewell, 
Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow 
Surely my parted spirit yet might know, 
If love be strong as death ! 



in. 
Now fair thou art, 
Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart ! 
Yet all the vision that within me wrought, 

I cannot make thee. Oh ! I might have given 
Birth to creations of far nobler thought ; 

I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven, 
Things not of such as die ! But I have been 
Too much alone ! A heart whereon to lean, 
With all these deep affections that o'erflow 
My aching soul, and find no shore below ; 



An eye to be my star; a voice to bring [spring'? 
Hope o'er my path like sounds that breathe of 
These are denied me — dreamt of still in vain. 
Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain 
Are ever but as some wild fitful song, 
Rising triumphantly, to die ere long 
In dirge-like echoes. 

IV. 

Yet the world will see 
Little of this, my parting work ! in thee. [reed 

Thou shalt have fame ! Oh, mockery ! give the 
From storms a shelter — give the drooping vine 
Something round which its tendrils may entwine — 

Give the parch'd flower a rain-drop, and the 
meed 
Of love's kind words to woman ! Worthless fame ! 
That in his bosom wins not for my name 
Th' abiding place it ask'd ! Yet how my heart, 
In its own fairy world of song and art, 
Once beat for praise ! Are those high longings o'er 1 
That which I have been can I be no more 1 
Never ! oh, never more ! though still thy sky 
Be blue as then, my glorious Italy ! 
And though the music, whose rich breathings fill 
Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still ■ 
And though the mantle of thy sunlight streams 
Unchanged on forms, instinct with poet-dreams. 
Never ! oh, never more ! Where'er I move, 
The shadow of this broken-hearted love 
Is on me and around ! Too well they know 

Whose life is all within, too soon and well, 
When there the blight hath settled ! But I go 

Under the silent wings of peace to dwell ; 
From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain, 
The inward burning of those words — " in vain," 

Sear'd on the heart — I go. 'Twill soon be past ! 
Sunshine and song, and bright Italian heaven, 

And thou, oh ! thou, on whom my spirit cast 
Unvalued wealth — whoknow'st not what was given 
In that devotedness — the sad, and deep, 
And unrepaid — farewell ! If I could weep 
Once, only once, beloved one ! on thy breast, 
Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest ! 
But that were happiness ! — and unto me 
Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was form'd to be 
So richly bless'd ! With thee to watch the sky, 
Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh ; 
With thee to listen, while the tones of song 
Swept even as part of our sweet air along — 
To listen silently ; with thee to gaze 
On forms, the deified of olden days — 
This had been joy enough ; and hour by hour, 
From its glad well-springs drinking life and power, 



394 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



How had my spirit soar'd, and made its fame 

A glory for thy brow! Dreams, dreams ! — The fire 

Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name — 

As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre 

When its full chords are hush'd — awhile to live, 

And one day haply in thy heart revive 

Sad thoughts of me. I leave it, with a sound, 

A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound ; 

I leave it, on my country's air to dwell — 

Say proudly yet — "'Twos hers who loved me well/'' 



GERTRUDE; OR, FIDELITY TILL DEATH. 

[The Baron Von der Wart, accused — though it is believed 
unjustly — as an accomplice in the assassination of the Em- 
peror Albert, was bound alive on the wheel, and attended by 
his wife Gertrude, throughout his last agonising hours, with 
the most heroic devotedness. Her own sufferings, with those 
of her unfortunate husband, are most affectingly described in 
a letter which she afterwards addressed to a female friend, 
and which was published some years ago, at Haarlem, in a 
book entitled Gertrude Von der Wart; or, Fidelity unto 
Death.] 

" Dark lowers our fate, 
And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us ; 
But nothing, till that latest agony 
Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose 
This fix'd and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house, 
In the terrific face of armed law, 
Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be, 
I never will forsake thee." Joanna Baillie. 

Her hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes raised, 

The breeze threw back her hair ; 
Up to the fearful wheel she gazed— 

All that she loved was there. 
The night was round her clear and cold, 

The holy heaven above, 
Its pale stars watching to behold 

The might of earthly love. 

" And bid me not depart," she cried ; 

" My Rudolph, say not so ! 
This is no time to quit thy side — 

Peace ! peace ! I cannot go. 
Hath the world aught for me to fear, 

When death is on thy brow 1 
The world ! what means it? Mine is here — 

I will not leave thee now. 

" I have been with thee in thine hour 

Of glory and of bliss ; 
Doubt not its memory's living power 

To strengthen me through this! 
And thou, mine honour'd love and true, 

Bear on, bear nobly on ! 



We have the blessed heaven in view, 
Whose rest shall soon be won." 

And were not these high words to flow 

From woman's breaking heart 1 
Through M that night of bitterest woe 

She bore her lofty part ; 
But oh ! with such a glazing eye, 

With such a curdling cheek — 
Love, Love ! of mortal agony 

Thou, only thou, shouldst speak ! 

The wind rose high — but with it rose 

Her voice, that he might hear : — 
Perchance that dark hour brought repose 

To happy bosoms near ; 
While she sat striving with despair 

Beside his tortured form, 
And pouring her deep soul in prayer 

Forth on the rushing storm. 

She wiped the death-damps from his brow 

With her pale hands and soft, 
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low 

Had still'd his heart so oft. 
She spread her mantle o'er his breast, 

She bathed his lips with dew, 
And on his cheek such kisses press'd 

As hope and joy ne'er knew. 

Oh ! lovely are ye, Love and Faith, 

Enduring to the last ! 
She had her meed — one smile in death — 

And his worn spirit pass'd ! 
While even as o'er a martyr's grave 

She knelt on that sad spot, 
And, weeping, bless'd the God who gave 

Strength to forsake it not. 



IMELDA. 

" Sometimes 
The young forgot the lessons they had learnt, 
And loved when they should hate — like thee, Imelda ! " 1 

Italy ; a Poem. 
" Passa la bella Donna, e par che dorma." — Tasso. 

We have the myrtle's breath around us here, 
Amidst the fallen pillars : this hath been 

Some Naiad's fane of old. How brightly clear, 
Flinging a vein of silver o'er the scene, 

Up through the shadowy grass the fountain wells, 
And music with it, gushing from beneath 

1 The tale of Imelda is related in Sismondi's Histoire dcs 
Republiques Italiennes, vol. iii, p. 443. 



IMELDA. 



395 



The ivied altar ! That sweet murmur tells 

The rich wild-flowers no tale of woe or death ; 
Yet once the wave was darken'd, and a stain 
Lay deep, and heavy drops — but not of rain — 
On the dim violets by its marble bed, 
And the pale-shining water-lily's head. 

Sad is that legend's truth. — A fair girl met 

One whom she loved, by this lone temple's spring, 
Just as the sun behind the pine-grove set, 

And eve's low voice in whispers woke, to bring 
All wanderers home. They stood, that gentle pair, 

With the blue heaven of Italy above, 
And citron-odours dying on the air, 
And light leaves trembling round, and early love 
Deep in each breast. What reck'd their souls of 

strife 
Between their fathers 1 Unto them young life 
Spread out the treasures of its vernal years ; 
And if they wept, they wept far other tears 
Than the cold world brings forth. They stood, 

that hour, 
Speaking of hope; while tree, and fount, and flower, 
And star, just gleaming through the cypress boughs, 
Seem'd holy things, as records of their vows. 

But change came o'er the scene. A hurrying tread 
Broke on the whispery shades. Imelda knew 
The footstep of her brother's wrath, and fled 

Up where the cedars make yon avenue 
Dim with green twilight : pausing there, she 

caught — 
Was it the clash of swords? A swift dark thought 
Struck down her lip's rich crimson as it pass'd, 
And from her eye the sunny sparkle took 
One moment with its fearfulness, and shook 
Her slight frame fiercely, as a stormy blast 
Might rock the rose. Once more, and yet once more, 
She still'd her heart to listen — all was o'er ; 
Sweet summer winds alone were heard to sigh, 
Bearing the nightingale's deep spirit by. 



That night Imelda's voice was in the song — 
Lovely it floated through the festive throng 
Peopling her father's halls. That fatal night 
Her eye look'd starry in its dazzling light, 
And her cheek glow'd with beauty's flushing dyes, 
Like a rich cloud of eve in southern skies — 
A burning, ruby cloud. There were, whose gaze 
Follow'd her from beneath the clear lamp's blaze, 
And marvell'd at its radiance. But a few 
Beheld the brightness of that feverish hue 
With something of dim fear ; and in that glance 
Found strange and sudden tokens of unrest, 



Startling to meet amidst the mazy dance, 

Where Thought, if present, an unbidden guest, 
Comes not unmask'd. Howe'er this were, the time 
Sped as it speeds with joy, and grief, and crime 
Alike : and when the banquet's hall was left 
Unto its garlands of their bloom bereft; 
When trembling stars look'd silvery in their wane, 
And heavy flowers yet slumber'd, once again 
There stole a footstep, fleet, and light, and lone, 
Through the dim cedar shade — the step of one 
That started at a leaf, of one that fled, 
Of one that panted with some secret dread. 
What did Imelda there 1 She sought the scene 
Where love so late with youth and hope had been. 
Bodings were on her soul ; a shuddering thrill 
Ban through each vein, when first the Naiad's rill 
Met her with melody — sweet sounds and low : 
We hear them yet, they live along its flow — 
Her voice is music lost ! The fountain-side 
She gain'd — the wave flash'd forth — 'twas darkly 

dyed 
Even as from warrior-hearts ; and on its edge. 

Amidst the fern, and flowers, and moss-tufts deep, 

There lay, as lull'd by stream and rustling sedge. 

A youth, a graceful youth. "Oh! dost thou 

sleep 1 
Azzo !" she cried, " my Azzo ! is this rest 1 " 
But then her low tones falter'd : — "On thy breast 
Isthestain — yes, 'tis blood! Andthat coldcheek — 
That moveless lip ! — thou dost not slumber l — 

speak, 
Speak, Azzo, my beloved ! No sound — no breath — 
What hath come thus between our spirits 1 Death ! 
Death 1 — I but dream — I dream !" And there she 

stood, 
A faint fair trembler, gazing first on blood, 
With her fair arm around yon cypress thrown, 
Her form sustain'd by that dark stem alone. 
And fading fast, like spell-struck maid of old, 
Into white waves dissolving, clear and cold ; 
When from the grass her dimm'd eye caught a 

gleam — 
'Twas where a sword lay shiver'd by the stream — 
Her brother's sword ! — she knew it: and she knew 
'Twas with a venom'd point that weapon slew ! 
Woe for young love! But love is strong. There came 
Strength upon woman's fragile heart and frame : 
There came swift courage ! On the dewy ground 
She knelt, with all her dark hair floating round 
Like a long silken stole ; she knelt, and press'd 
Her lips of glowing life to Azzo's breast, 
Drawing the poison forth. A strange, sad sight ! 
Pale death, and fearless love, and solemn night ! 
— So the moon saw them last. 



396 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



The morn came singing 

Through the green forests of the Apennines, 
With all her joyous birds their free flight winging, 

And steps and voices out amongst the vines. 
What found that dayspring here ? Two fair forms 

laid 
Like sculptured sleepers ; from the myrtle shade 
Casting a gleam of beauty o'er the wave, 
Still, mournful, sweet. Were such things for the 

grave 1 
Could it be so indeed ] That radiant girl, 
Deck'd as for bridal hours ! — long braids of pearl 
Amidst her shadowy locks were faintly shining, 

As tears might shine, with melancholy light; 
And there was gold her slender waist entwining ; 

And her pale graceful arms — how sadly bright; 
And fiery gems upon her breast were lying, 
And round her marble brow red roses dying. 
But she died first !— the violet's hue had spread 
O'er her sweet eyelids with repose oppress'd ; 
She had bow'd heavily her gentle head, 
And on the youth's hush'd bosom sunk to rest. 
So slept they well ! — the poison's work was done ; 
Love with true heart had striven — but Death had 



EDITH. 

A TALE OF THE WOODS. 

" Da Heilige ! rufe dein Kind zuruck ! 
Ich habe genossen das irdische Gluck, 
Ich habe gelebt und geliebet." Wallenstein. 

The woods — oh ! solemn are the boundless woods 

Of the great western world when day declines, 
And louder sounds the roll of distant floods, 

More deep the rustling of the ancient pines. 
When dimness gathers on the stilly air, 

And mystery seems o'er every leaf to brood, 
Awful it is for human heart to bear 

The might and burden of the solitude ! [sate 
Yet, in that hour, midst those green wastes, there 
One young and fair ; and oh ! how desolate ! 
But undismay'd — while sank the crimson light, 
And the high cedars darken'd with the night. 
Alone she sate ; though many lay around, 
They, pale and silent on the bloody ground, 
Were sever'd from her need and from her woe, 

Far as death severs life. O'er that wild spot 
Combat had raged, and brought the valiant low, 

And left them, with the history of their lot, 

1 Founded on incidents related in an American work, 
" Sketches of Connecticut." 



Unto the forest oaks — a fearful scene 

For her whose home of other days had been 

Midst the fair halls of England ! But the love 

Which fill'd her soul was strong to cast out fear ; 
And by its might upborne all else above, 

She shrank not — mark'd not that the dead were 
near. 
Of him alone she thought, whose languid head 

Faintly upon her wedded bosom fell ; 
Memory of aught but him on earth was fled, 

While heavily she felt his life-blood well 
Fast o'er her garments forth, and vainly bound 
With her torn robe and hair the streaming wound — 
Yet hoped, still hoped ! Oh ! from such hope how 
long 

Affection woos the whispers that deceive, 
Even when the pressure of dismay grows strong ! 

And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne'er believe 
The blow indeed can fall. So bow'd she there 
Over the dying, while unconscious prayer 
Fill'd all her soul. Now pour'd the moonlight down, 
Veining the pine-stems through the foliage brown. 
And fire-flies, kindling up the leafy place, 
Cast fitful radiance o'er the warrior's face, 
Whereby she caught its changes. To her eye, 

The eye that faded look'd through gathering haze, 
Whence love, o'ermastering mortal agony, 

Lifted a long, deep, melancholy gaze, 
When voice was not; that fond, sad meaning 

pass'd — 
She knew the fulness of her woe at last ! 
One shriek the forests heard — and mute she lay 
And cold, yet clasping still the precious clay 
To her scarce-heaving breast. Love and Death ! 

Ye have sad meetings on this changeful earth, 
Many and sad ! — but airs of heavenly breath 

Shall melt the links which bind you, for your birth 
Is far apart. 

Now light, of richer hue 
Than the moon sheds, came flushing mist and dew ; 
The pines grew red with morning ; fresh winds 
play'd ; [shade, 

Bright-colour' d birds with splendour cross'd the 
Flitting on flower-like wings ; glad murmurs broke 

From reed, and spray, and leaf — the living strings 
Of earth's iEolian lyre, whose music woke 

Into young life and joy all happy things. 
And she, too, woke from that long dreamless trance, 
The widow'd Edith : fearfully her glance 
Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange, 
And dusky forms. A sudden sense of change 
Flash'd o'er her spirit, even ere memory swept 
The tide of anguish back with thoughts that slept; 



EDITH. 



397 



Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread 
Her arms, as 'twere for something lost or fled, 
Then faintly sank again. The forest-bough, 
With all its whispers, waved not o'er her now. 
Where was she ? Midst the people of the wild, 

By the red hunter's fire : an aged chief, 
Whose home look'd sad — for therein play'd no 
child- 
Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief, 
To that lone cabin of the woods ; and there, 
Won by a form so desolately fair, 
Or touch'd with thoughts from some past sorrow 

sprung, 
O'er her low couch an Indian matron hung ; 
While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye, 
The ancient warrior of the waste stood by, 
Bending in watchfulness his proud gray head, 
And leaning on his bow. 

And life return' d — 
Life, but with all its memories of the dead, 

To Edith's heart ; and well the sufferer learn'd 
Her task of meek endurance — well she wore 
The chasten'd grief that humbly can adore 
Midst blinding tears. But unto that old pair, 
Even as a breath of spring's awakening air, 
Her presence was ; or as a sweet wild tune 
Bringing back tender thoughts, which all too soon 
Depart with childhood. Sadly they had seen 

A daughter to the land of spirits go ; 
And ever from that time her fading mien, 

And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low, 
Had haunted their dim years : but Edith's face 
Now look'd in holy sweetness from her place, 
And they again seem'd parents. Oh ! the joy, 
The rich deep blessedness — though earth's alloy, 
Fear, that still bodes, be there — of pouring forth 
The heart's whole power of love, its wealth and 

worth 
Of strong affection, in one healthful flow, 
On something all its own ! that kindly glow, 
Which to shut inward is consuming pain, 
Gives the glad soul its flowering time again, 
When, like the sunshine, freed. And gentle cares 
Th' adopted Edith meekly gave for theirs 
Who loved her thus. Her spirit dwelt the while 
With the departed, and her patient smile 
Spoke of farewells to earth ; yet still she pray'd, 
E'en o'er her soldier's lowly grave, for aid 
One purpose to fulfil, to leave one trace 
Brightly recording that her dwelling-place 
Had been among the wilds ; for well she knew 
The secret whisper of her bosom true, 
Which warn'd her hence. 



And now, by many a word 
Link'd unto moments when the heart was stirr'd — 
By the sweet mournfulness of many a hymn, 
Sung when the woods at eve grewhush'd and dim — 
By the persuasion of her fervent eye, 
All eloquent with childlike piety — 
By the still beauty of her life she strove 
To win for heaven, and heaven-bom truth, the love 
Pour'd out on her so freely. Nor in vain 
Was that soft-breathing influence to enchain 
The soul in gentle bonds ; by slow degrees 
Light follow'd on, as when a summer breeze 
Parts the deep masses of the forest shade, [made 
And lets the sunbeam through. Her voice was 
Even such a breeze ; and she, a lowly guide, 
By faith and sorrow raised and purified, 
So to the Cross her Indian fosterers led, 
Until their prayers were one. When morning spread 
O'er the blue lake, and when the sunset's glow 
Touch'd into golden bronze the cypress bough, 
And when the quiet of the Sabbath-time 
Sank on her heart, though no melodious chime 
Waken'd the wilderness, their prayers were one. 
Now might she pass in hope — her work was done ! 
And she was passing from the woods away — 
The broken flower of England might not stay 
Amidst those alien shades. Her eye was bright 
Even yet with something of a starry light, 
But her form wasted, and her fair young cheek 
Wore oft and patiently a fatal streak, 
A rose whose root was death. The parting sigh 
Of autumn through the forests had gone by, 
And the rich maple o'er her wanderings lone 
Its crimson leaves in many a shower had strown, 
Flushing the air ; and winter's blast had been 
Amidst the pines; and now a softer green [come, 
Fringed their dark boughs : for spring again had 
The sunny spring ! but Edith to her home 
Was journeying fast. Alas ! we think it sad 
To part with life when all the earth looks glad 
In her young lovely things — when voices break 
Into sweet sounds, and leaves and blossoms wake : 
Is it not brighter, then, in that far clime 
Where graves are not, nor blights of changeful time, 
If here such glory dwell with passing blooms, 
Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs 1 
So thought the dying one. 'Twas early day, 
And sounds and odours, with the breezes' play 
Whispering of spring-time, through the cabin door, 
Unto her couch life's farewell sweetness bore. 
Then with a look where all her hope awoke, 
"My father!" — to the gray-hair'd chief she spoke — 
" Know'st thou that I depart V " I know, I know," 
He answer'd mournfully, " that thou must go 



398 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



To thy beloved, my daughter!" "Sorrow not 
For me, kind mother ! " with meek smiles once 
more 
She murmur'd in low tones : " one happy lot 
Awaits us, friends ! upon the better shore ; 
For we have pray'd together in one trust, 
And lifted our frail spirits from the dust 
To God, who gave them. Lay me by mine own, 
Under the cedar shade : where he is gone, 
Thither I go. There will my sisters be, 
And the dead parents, lisping at whose knee 
My childhood's prayer was learn'd — the Saviour's 

prayer 
Which now ye know — and I shall meet you there. 
Father and gentle mother ! ye have bound 
The bruised reed, and mercy shall be found 
By Mercy's children." From the matron's eye 
Dropp'd tears, her sole and passionate reply. 
But Edith felt them not ; for now a sleep 
Solemnly beautiful — a stillness deep, 
Fell on her settled face. Then, sad and slow, 
And mantling up his stately head in woe, 
" Thou'rt passing hence," he sang, that warrior old, 
In sounds like those by plaintive waters roll'd. 

" Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side, 

And the hunter's hearth away : 
For the time of flowers, for the summer's pride, 

Daughter ! thou canst not stay. 

" Thou'rt journeying to thy spirit's home, 

Where the skies are ever clear : 
The corn-month's golden hours will come, 

But they shall not find thee here. 

" And we shall miss thy voice, my bird ! 

Under our whispering pine ; 
Music shall midst the leaves be heard, 

But not a song like thine. 

" A breeze that roves o'er stream and hill, 

Telling of winter gone, 
Hath such sweet falls — yet caught we still 

A farewell in its tone. 

" But thou, my bright one ! thou shalt be 

Where farewell sounds are o'er ; 
Thou, in the eyes thou lovest, shalt see 

No fear of parting more. 

" The mossy grave thy tears have wet, 
And the wind's wild moanings by, 

Thou with thy kindred shalt forget, 
Midst flowers — not such as die. 



" The shadow from thy brow shall melt 

The sorrow from thy strain, 
But where thine earthly smile hath dwelt 

Our hearts shall thirst in vain. 

Dim will our cabin be, and lone, 

When thou, its light, art fled ; 
Yet hath thy step the pathway shown 

Unto the happy dead. 

" And we will follow thee, our guide ! 

And join that shining band ; 
Thou'rt passing from the lake's green side — 

Go to the better land ! " 

The song had ceased, thelist'ners caught no breath : 
That lovely sleep had melted into death. 



THE INDIAN" CITY. 1 



' What deep wounds ever closed without a scar ? 
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That which disfigures it." Childe Harold. 



Royal in splendour went down the day 

On the plain where an Indian city lay, 

With its crown of domes o'er the forest high, 

Red, as if fused in the burning sky ; 

And its deep groves pierced bythe rays which made 

A bright stream's way through each long arcade, 

Till the pillar'd vaults of the banian stood 

Like torch-lit aisles midst the solemn wood ; 

And the plantain glitter'd with leaves of gold, 

As a tree midst the genii gardens old, 

And the cypress lifted a blazing spire, 

And the stems of the cocoas were shafts of fire. 

Many a white pagoda's gleam 

Slept lovely round upon lake and stream, 

Broken alone by the lotus flowers, 

As they caught the glow of the sun's last hours, 

Like rosy wine in their cups, and shed 

Its glory forth on their crystal bed. 

Many a graceful Hindoo maid, 

With the water-vase from the palmy shade, 

Came gliding light as the desert's roe, 

Down marble steps, to the tanks below ; 

And a cool sweet plashing was ever heard, 

As the molten glass of the wave was stirr'd, 

And a murmur, thrilling the scented air, 

Told where the Bramin bow'd in prayer. 

1 From a tale in Forbes's Oriental Memoirs. 



THE INDIAN CITY. 



— There wander'd a noble Moslem boy 
Through the scene of beauty in breathless joy ; 
He gazed where the stately city rose, 
Like a pageant of clouds, in its red repose ; 
He turn'd where birds through the gorgeousgloom 
Of the woods went glancing on starry plume ; 
He track'd the brink of the shining lake, 
By the tall canes feather'd in tuft and brake ; 
Till the path he chose, in its mazes, wound 
To the very heart of the holy ground. 

And there lay the water, as if enshrined 
In a rocky urn, from the sun and wind, 
Bearing the hues of the grove on high, 
Far down through its dark still purity. 
The flood beyond, to the fiery west, 
Spread out like a metal mirror's breast ; 
But that lone bay, in its dimness deep, 
Seem'd made for the swimmer's joyous leap, 
For the stag athirst from the noontide chase, 
For all free things of the wild wood's race. 

Like a falcon's glance on the wide blue sky, 
Was the kindling flash of the boy's glad eye ; 
Like a sea-bird's flight to the foaming wave, 
From the shadowy bank was the bound he gave ; 
Dashing the spray-drops, cold and white, 
O'er the glossy leaves in its young delight, 
And bowing his locks to the waters clear — 
Alas ! he dreamt not that fate was near. 

His mother look'd from her tent the while, 

O'er heaven and earth with a quiet smile : 

She, on her way unto Mecca's fane, 

Had stay'd the march of her pilgrim train, 

Calmly to linger a few brief hours 

In the Bramin city's glorious bowers ; 

For the pomp of the forest, the wave's bright fall, 

The red gold of sunset — she loved them all. 



The moon rose clear in the splendour given 
To the deep-blue night of an Indian heaven ; 
The boy from the high-arch'd woods came back — 
Oh ! what had he met in his lonely track 1 ? 
The serpent's glance, through the long reeds 

bright] 
The arrowy spring of the tiger's might ] 
No ! yet as one by a conflict worn, 
With his graceful hair all soil'd and torn, 
And a gloom on the lids of his darken'd eye, 
And a gash on his bosom — he came to die ! 
He look'd for the face to his young heart sweet, 
And found it, and sank at his mother's feet. 



" Speak to me ! whence doth the swift blood run 1 

What hath befallen thee, my child, my son 1 " 

The mist of death on his brow lay pale, 

But his voice just linger'd to breathe the tale, 

Murmuring faintly of wrongs and scorn, 

And wounds from the children of Brahma borne. 

This was the doom for a Moslem found 

With a foot profane on their holy ground — 

This was for sullying the pure waves, free 

Unto them alone — 'twas their god's decree. 

A change came o'er his wandering look — 

The mother shriek'd not then nor shook : 

Breathless she knelt in her son's young blood, 

Bending her mantle to stanch its flood ; 

But it rush'd like a river which none may stay, 

Bearing a flower to the deep away. 

That which our love to the earth would chain, 

Fearfully striving with heaven in vain — 

That which fades from us, while yet we hold, 

Clasp'd to our bosoms, its mortal mould, 

Was fleeting before her, afar and fast ; 

One moment — the soul from the face had pass'd ! 

Are there no words for that common woe 1 

Ask of the thousands its depth that know ! 

The boy had breathed, in his dreaming rest, 

Like a low-voiced dove, on her gentle breast ; 

He had stood, when she sorrow' d, beside her knee. 

Painfully stilling his quick heart's glee ; 

He had kiss'd from her cheek the widow's tears. 

With the loving lip of his infant years : 

He had smiled o'er her path like a bright spring 

day— 
Now in his blood on the earth he lay ! 
Murder 'd ! Alas ! and we love so well 
In a world where anguish like this can dwell ! 

She bow'd down mutely o'er her dead — 
They that stood round her watch'd in dread ; 
They watch'd — she knew not they were by — 
Her soul sat veil'd in its agony. 
On the silent lip she press'd no kiss — 
Too stern was the grasp of her pangs for this : 
She shed no tear, as her face bent low 
O'er the shining hair of the lifeless brow ; 
She look'd but into the half-shut eye 
With a gaze that found there no reply, 
And, shrieking, mantled her head from sight, 
And fell, struck down by her sorrows might. 

And what deep change, what work of power, 
Was wrought on her secret soul that hour % 
How rose the lonely one 1 She rose 
Like a prophetess from dark repose ! 



400 



RECORDS OF WOMAN". 



And proudly flung from her face the veil, 

And shook the hair from her forehead pale, 

And midst her wondering handmaids stood, 

With the sudden glance of a dauntless mood — 

Ay, lifting up to the midnight sky 

A brow in its regal passion high, 

With a close and rigid grasp she press'd 

The blood-stain'd robe to her heaving breast, 

And said — " Not yet, not yet I weep, 

Not yet my spirit shall sink or sleep ! 

Not till yon city, in ruins rent, 

Be piled for its victim's monument. 

Cover his dust ! bear it on before ! 

It shall visit those temple gates once more." 

And away in the train of the dead she turn'd, 
The strength of her step was the heart that burn'd; 
And the Bramin groves in the starlight smiled, 
As the mother pass'd with her slaughter'd child. 



Hark ! a wild sound of the desert's horn 
Through the woods round the Indian city borne, 
A peal of the cymbal and tambour afar — 
War ! 'tis the gathering of Moslem war ! 
The Bramin look'd from the leaguer'd towers — 
He saw the wild archer amidst his bowers ; 
And the lake that flash'd through the plantain 

shade, 
As the' light of the lances along it play'd ; 
And the canes that shook as if winds were high, 
When the fiery steed of the waste swept by ; 
And the camp as it lay like a billowy sea, 
Wide round the sheltering banian-tree. 

There stood one tent from the rest apart — 
That was the place of a wounded heart. 
Oh ! deep is a wounded heart, and strong 
A voice that cries against mighty wrong ; 
And full of death as a hot wind's blight, 
Doth the ire of a crush'd affection light. 

Maimuna from realm to realm had pass'd, 
And her tale had rung like a trumpet's blast. 
There had been words from her pale lips pour'd, 
Each one a spell to unsheath the sword. 
The Tartar had sprung from his steed to hear, 
And the dark chief of Araby grasp'd his spear, 
Till a chain of long lances begirt the wall, 
And a vow was recorded that doom'd its fall. 
Back with the dust of her son she came, 
When her voice had kindled that lightning flame; 
She came in the might of a queenly foe, 
Banner, and javelin, and bended bow ; 



But a deeper power on her forehead sate — 
TJiere sought the warrior his star of fate : 
Her eye's wild flash through the tented line 
Was hail'd as a spirit and a sign, 
And the faintest tone from her lip was caught 
As a sibyl's breath of prophetic thought. 

Vain, bitter glory ! — the gift of grief, 
That lights up vengeance to find relief, 
Transient and faithless ! It cannot fill 
So the deep void of the heart, nor still 
The yearning left by a broken tie, 
That haunted fever of which we die ! 

Sickening she turn'd from her sad renown, 
As a king in death might reject his crown. 
Slowly the strength of the walls gave way — 
She wither'd faster from day to day : 
All the proud sounds of that banner'd plain, 
To stay the flight of her soul were vain ; 
Like an eagle caged, it had striven, and worn 
The frail dust, ne'er for such conflicts born, 
Till the bars were rent, and the hour was come 
For its fearful rushing through darkness home. 

The bright sun set in his pomp and pride, 
As on that eve when the fair boy died : 
She gazed from her couch, and a softness fell 
O'er her weary heart with the day's farewell ; 
She spoke, and her voice, in its dying tone, 
Had an echo of feelings that long seem'd flown. 
She murmur'd a low sweet cradle-song, 
Strange midst the din of a warrior throng — ■ 
A song of the time when her boy's young cheek 
Had glow'd on her breast in its slumber meek. 
But something which breathed from that mourn- 
ful strain 
Sent a fitful gust o'er her soul again ; 
And starting, as if from a dream, she cried — 
" Give him proud burial at my side ! 
There, by yon lake, where the palm-boughs wave, 
When the temples are fallen, make there our 

grave." 
And the temples fell, though the spirit pass'd, 
That stay'd not for victory's voice at last ; 
When the day was won for the martyr dead. 
For the broken heart and the bright blood shed. 

Through the gates of the vanquish'd the Tartar steed 
Bore in the avenger with foaming speed ; 
Free swept the flame through the idol fanes, 
And the streams glow'd red, as from warrior veins ; 
And the sword of the Moslem, let loose to slay. 
Like the panther lept on its flying prey, 



THE PEASANT GIEL OF THE RHONE. 



401 



Till a city of ruin begirt the shade 

Where the boy and his mother at rest were laid. 

Palace and tower on that plain were left, 
Like fallen trees by the lightning cleft ; 
The wild vine mantled the stately square, 
The Rajah's throne was the serpent's lair, 
And the jungle grass o'er the altar sprung — 
This was the work of one deep heart wrung ! 



THE PEASANT GIRL OF THE RHONE. 



" There is but one place in the world- 

Thither, where he lies buried ! 



There, there is all that still remains of him : 
That single spot is the whole earth to me." 

Coleridge's " Wallenstein." 
" Alas ! our young affections run to waste, 
Or water but the desert." — Childe Harold. 

Theee went a warrior's funeral through the night, 
A waving of tall plumes, a ruddy light 
Of torches, fitfully and wildly thrown 
From the high woods, along the sweeping Rhone, 
Far down the waters. Heavily and dead, 
Under the moaning trees, the horse-hoof's tread 
In muffled sounds upon the greensward fell, 
As chieftains pass'd ; and solemnly the swell 
Of the deep requiem, o'er the gleaming river 
Borne with the gale, and with the leaves' low shiver, 
Floated and died. PrOud mourners there, yet pale, 

Wore man's mute anguish sternly ; — but of one, 
Oh, who shall speak? What words his brow unveil] 

A father following to the grave his son ! — 
That is no grief to picture ! Sad and slow, 

Through the wood-shadows, moved the knightly 
train, 
With youth's fair form upon the bier laid low — 

Fair even when found amidst the bloody slain, 
Stretch'd by its broken lance. They reach'd the 
lone 

Baronial chapel, where the forest-gloom 
Fell heaviest, for the massy boughs had grown 

Into thick archways, as to vault the tomb. 
Stately they trode the hollow-ringing aisle, 
A strange deep echo shudder'd through the pile, 
Till crested heads at last in silence bent 
Round the De Coucis' antique monument, 
When dust to dust was given : — and Aymer slept 

Beneath the drooping banners of his line, 
Whose broider'd folds the Syrian wind had swept 

Proudly and oft o'er fields of Palestine. 



So the sad rite was closed. The sculptor gave 
Trophies, ere long, to deck that lordly grave ; 
And the pale image of a youth, arra/d 
As warriors are for fight, but calmly laid 

In slumber on his shield. Then all was done — 
All still around the dead. His name was heard 
Perchance when wine-cups flow'd, and hearts were 
stirr'd 

By some old song, or tale of battle won 
Told round the hearth. But in his father's breast 
Manhood's high passions woke again, and press'd 
On to their mark ; and in his friend's clear eye 
There dwelt no shadow of a dream gone by ; 
And with the brethren of his fields, the feast 
Was gay as when the voice whose sounds had ceased 
Mingled with theirs. Even thus life's rushing tide 
Bears back affection from the grave's dark side ; 
Alas ! to think of this ! — the heart's void place 

Fill'd up so soon ! — so like a summer cloud, 
All that we loved to pass and leave no trace ! — 

He lay forgotten in his early shroud. 
Forgotten ? — not of all ! The sunny smile 
Glancing in play o'er that proud lip erewhile, 
And the dark locks, whose breezy waving threw 
A gladness round, whene'er their shade withdrew 
From the bright brow ; and all the sweetness lying 

Within that eagle eye's jet radiance deep, 
And all the music with that young voice dying, 

Whose joyous echoes made the quick heart leap 
As at a hunter's bugle — these things lived 
Still in one breast, whose silent love survived 
The pomps of kindred sorrow. Day by day, 
On Aymer's tomb fresh flowers in garlands lay, [ing, 
Through the dim fane soft summer odours breath- 
And all the pale sepulchral trophies wreathing, 
And with a flush of deeper brilliance glowing 
In the rich light, like molten rubies flowing 
Through storied windows down. The violet there 

Might speak of love — a secret love and lowly ; 
And the rose image all things fleet and fair ; 

And the faint passion-flower, the sad and holy, 
Tell of diviner hopes. But whose light hand, 
As for an altar, wove the radiant band ? 
Whose gentle nurture brought, .from hidden dells, 
That gem-like wealth of blossoms and sweet bells, 
To blush through every season? Blight and chill 
Might touch the changing woods ; but duly still 
For years those gorgeous coronals renew'd, 

And brightly clasping marble spear and helm, 
Even through mid-winter, fill'd the solitude 

With a strange smile — a glow of summer's realm. 
Surely some fond and fervent heart was pouring 
Its youth's vain worship on the dust, adoring 
In lone devotedness ! 



402 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



One spring morn rose, 

And found, within that tomb's proud shadow 
laid — ■ 
Oh ! not as midst the vineyards, to repose 

From the fierce noon — a dark-hair'd peasant 
maid. 
Who could reveal her story 1 That still face 

Had once been fair; for on the clear arch'd brow 
And the curved lip there linger'd yet such grace 

As sculpture gives its dreams; and long and low 
The deep black lashes, o'er the half-shut eye — 
For death was on its lids — fell mournfully. 
But the cold cheek was sunk, the raven hair 
Dimm'd, the slight form all wasted, as by care. 
When ce came that early blight 1 E'er kindred's place 
Was not amidst the high De Couci race ; [wreath, 
Yet there her shrine had been ! She grasp'd a 
The tomb's last garlaDd ! — This was love in death. 



INDIAN WOMAN'S DEATH-SONG. 

[An Indian woman, driven to despair by her husband's 
desertion of her for another wife, entered a canoe with her 
children, and rowed it down the Mississippi towards a cata- 
ract. Her voice was heard from the shore singing a mournful 
death-song, until overpowered by the sound of the waters in 
which she perished. The tale is related in Long's ' ' Expedition 
to the Source of St Peter's River."] 

" Non, je ne puis vivre avee un coeur brise. II faut que je retrouve 
lajoie, et que je m'unisse aux esprits libres de l'air." 

" Bride of Messina." Translated by Madame de Stael. 
" Let not my child be a girl, for very sad is the life of a woman." 

" The Prairie." 

Down a broad river of the western wilds, 
Piercing thick forest-glooms, a light canoe 
Swept with the current : fearful was the speed 
Of the frail bark, as by a tempest's wing 
Borne leaf-like on to where the mist of spray 
Rose with the cataract's thunder. Yet within, 
Proudly, and dauntlessly, and all alone, 
Save that a babe lay sleeping at her breast, 
A woman stood ! Upon her Indian brow 
Sat a strange gladness, and her dark hair waved 
As if triumphantly. She press'd her child, 
In its bright slumber, to her beating heart, 
And lifted her sweet voice, that rose awhile 
Above the sound of waters, high and clear, 
Wafting a wild proud strain — a song of death. 

"Roll swiftly to the spirits' land, thou mighty 

stream and free ! 
Father of ancient waters, 1 roll ! and bear our lives 

with thee ! 
1 " Father of waters," the Indian name for the Mississippi. 



The weary bird that stoims have toss'd would 

seek the sunshine's calm, 
And the deer that hath the arrow's hurt flies to 

the woods of balm. 

" Roll on ! — my warrior's eye hath look'd upon 

another's face, 
And mine hath faded from his soul, as fades a 

moonbeam's trace : 
My shadow comes not o'er his path, my whisper 

to his dream — 
He flings away the broken reed. Roll swifter yet, 

thou stream ! 

" The voice that spoke of other days is hush'd 

within his breast, 
But mine its lonely music haunts, and will not 

let me rest ; 
It sings a low and mournful song of gladness that 

is gone — 
I cannot live without that light. Father of waves ! 

roll on ! 

"Will he not miss the bounding step that met 
him from the chase 1 

The heart of love that made his home an ever- 
sunny place 1 

The hand that spread the hunter's board, and 
deck'd his couch of yore 1 — 

He will not ! Roll, dark foaming stream, on to 
the better shore ! 

" Some blessed fount amidst the woods of that 

bright land must flow, 
Whose waters from my soul may lave the memory 

of this woe; 
Some gentle wind must whisper there, whose 

breath may waft away 
The burden of the heavy night, the sadness of 

the day. 

" And thou, my babe ! though born, like me, for 

woman's weary lot, 
Smile ! — to that wasting of the heart, my own ! 

I leave thee not ; 
Too bright a thing art thou to pine in aching love 

away — 
Thy mother bears thee far, young fawn ! from 

sorrow and decay. 

"She bears thee to the glorious bowers where 

none are heard to weep, 
And where th' unkind one hath no power again 

to trouble sleep ; 



JOAN OP AEC IN BHEIMS. 



403 



And where the soul shall find its youth, as 

wakening from a dream : 
One moment, and that realm is ours. On, on, 

dark-rolling stream !" 



JOAN OF ARC IN" RHEIMS. 

[" Jeanne d'Arc avait eu la joie de voir a Chalons quelques 
amis de son enfance. Une joie plus ineffable encore l'atten- 
dait a Rheims, au sein de son triomphe : Jacques d'Arc, son 
pere, y se trouva, aussitot que de troupes de Charles VII. y 
furent entries ; et comme les deux freres de notre heroine 
l'avaient accompagn^e, elle se vit pour un instant au milieu 
de sa famille, dans les bras d'un pere vertueux."— Vie de 
Jeanne d'Arc.2 

Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame ! 

A draught that mantles high, 
And seems to lift this earth-born frame 

Above mortality : 
Away ! to me— a woman — bring 
Sweet waters from affection's spring ! 

That was a joyous day in Rheims of old, 
When peal on peal of mighty music roll'd 
Forth from her throng'd cathedral; while around, 
A multitude, whose billows made no sound, 
Chain'd to a hush of wonder, though elate 
With victory, listen'd at their temple's gate. 
And what was done within 1 Within, the light, 

Through the rich gloom of pictured windows 
flowing, 
Tinged with soft awfulness a stately sight — 

The chivalry of France their proud heads bowing 
In martial vassalage ! While midst that ring, 
And shadow'd by ancestral tombs, a king 
Receivedhis birth-right's crown. For this, the hymn 

Swell' d out like rushing waters, and the day 
With the sweet censer's misty breath grew dim, 

As through long aisles it floated o'er th' array 
Of arms and sweeping stoles. But who, alone 
And unapproach'd, beside the altar-stone, 
With the white banner forth like sunshine stream- 
ing, [gleaming, 
And the gold helm through clouds of fragrance 
Silent and radiant stood 1 The helm was raised, 
And the fair face reveal' d, that upward gazed, 
Intensely worshipping — a still, clear face, 
Youthful, but brightly solemn ! Woman's cheek 
And brow were there, in deep devotion meek, 
Yet glorified, with inspiration's trace 
On its pure paleness ; while, enthroned above, 
The pictured Virgin, with her smile of love, 
Seem'dbendingo'erhervotaress. That slightform! 
Was that the leader through the battle-storm 1 
Had the soft light in that adoring eye 
Guided the warrior where the swords flash'd high 1 



'Twas so, even so! — and thou, the shepherd's child, 
Joanne, the lowly dreamer of the wild ! 
Never before, and never since that hour, 
Hath woman, mantled with victorious power, 
Stood forth as thou beside the shrine didst stand, 
Holy amidst the knighthood of the land, 
And, beautiful with joy and with renown, 
Lift thy white banner o'er the olden crown, 
Ransom'd for France by thee ! 

The rites are done. 
Now let the dome with trumpet-notes be shaken, 
And bid the echoes of the tomb awaken, 

And come thou forth, that heaven's rejoicing sun 
May give thee welcome from thine own blue skies, 

Daughter of victory ! A triumphant strain, 
A proud rich stream of warlike melodies, 

Gush'd through the portals of the antique fane, 
And forth she came. Then rose a nation's sound : 
Oh ! what a power to bid the quick heart bound, 
The wind bears onward with the stormy cheer 
Man gives to glory on her high career ! 
Is there indeed such power ! — far deeper dwells 
In one kind household voice, to reach the cells 
Whence happiness flows forth ! The shouts that 

fill'd 
The hollow heaven tempestuously, were still'd 
One moment ; and in that brief pause, the tone, 
As of a breeze that o'er her home had blown, 
Sank on the bright maid's heart. " Joanne ! " — 
Who spoke [grew 

Like those whose childhood with her childhood 
Under one roof? "Joanne!'* — that murmur broke 

With sounds of weeping forth ! She turn'd — 
she knew 
Beside her, mark'd from all the thousands there, 
In the calm beauty of his silver hair, 
The stately shepherd; and the youth, whose joy, 
From his dark eye flash'd proudly ; and the boy, 
The youngest born, that ever loved her best : — 
"Father ! and ye, my brothers !" On the breast 
Of that gray sire she sank— and swiftly back, 
Even in an instant, to their native track [more 
Her free thoughts flow'd. She saw the pomp no 
The plumes, the banners : to her cabin-door, 
And to the Fairy's Fountain in the glade, 1 
Where her young sisters by her side had play'd, 
And to her hamlet's chapel, where it rose 
Hallowing the forest unto deep repose, 
Her spirit turn'd. The very wood-note, sung 

In early spring-time by the bird, which dwelt 

1 A beautiful fountain, near Domremi, believed to be 
haunted by fairies, and a favourite resort of Jeanne d'Arc in 
her childhood. 



404 



RECORDS OF WOMAN". 



Where o'er her father's roof the beech leaves hung, 
Was in her heart ; a music heard and felt, 

Winning her back to nature. She unbound 
The helm of many battles from her head, 

And, with her bright locks bow'd to sweep the 
ground, 
Lifting her voice up, wept for joy and said— 

" Bless me, my father ! bless me ! and with thee, 

To the still cabin and the beechen tree, 

Let me return !" 

Oh ! never did thine eye 
Through the green haunts of happy infancy 
Wander again, Joanne ! Too much of fame 
Had shed its radiance on thy peasant name ; 
And bought alone by gifts beyond all price — 
The trusting heart's repose, the paradise 
Of home, with all its loves — doth fate allow 
The crown of glory unto woman's brow. 



PAULINE. 

To die for what we love ! Oh ! there is power 
In the true heart, and pride, and joy, for this : 
It is to live without the vanish'd light 
That strength is needed. 



trapassar d'un Giorno 
Delia vita mortal il fiore e'l verde." Tasso. 

Along the starlit Seine went music swelling, 
Till the air thrill'd with its exulting mirth ; 

Proudly it floated, even as if no dwelling 

For cares or stricken hearts were found on earth ; 

And a glad sound the measure lightly beat, 

A happy chime of many dancing feet. 

For in a palace of the land that night, [hung ; 

Lamps, and fresh roses, and green leaves were 
And from the painted walls, a stream of light 

On flying forms beneath soft splendour flung ; 
But loveliest far amidst the revel's pride 
Was one — the lady from the Danube side. 1 

Pauline, the meekly bright ! though now no more 
Her clear eye flash'd with youth's all-tameless 
glee, 

Yet something holier than its dayspring wore, 
There in soft rest lay beautiful to see ; 

A charm with graver, tenderer, sweetness fraught — 

The blending of deep love and matron thought. 

Through the gay throng she moved, serenely fair, 
And such calm joy as fills a moonlight sky 

1 The Princess Pauline Schwartzenberg. The story of her 
fate is beautifully related in L'Alkmagne, vol. iii. p. 336. 



Sat on her brow beneath its graceful hair, 

As her young daughter in the dance went by, 
With the fleet step of one that yet hath known 
Smiles and kind voices in this world alone. 

Lurk'd there no secret boding in her breast ? 

Did no faint whisper warn of evil nigh ? 
Such oft awake when most the heart seems blest 

Midst the light laughter of festivity. [know 
Whence come those tones? Alas ! enough we 
To mingle fear with all triumphal show ! 

Who spoke of evil when young feet were flying 
In fairy rings around the echoing hall ? 

Soft airs through braided locks in perfume sighing, 
Glad pulses beating unto music's call ? 

Silence! — the minstrels pause — and hark ! a sound, 

A strange quick rustling which their notes had 
drown'd ! 

And lo ! a light upon the dancers breaking — 
Not such their clear and silvery lamps had shed ! 

From the gay dream of revelry awaking, 

One moment holds them still in breathless dread. 

The wild fierce lustre grows : then bursts a cry — 

Fire! through the hall and round it gathering — 

fly! 

And forth they rush, as chased by sword and spear, 
To the green coverts of the garden bowers — 

A gorgeous masque of pageantry and fear, 

Startling the birds and trampling down the 
flowers : 

While from the dome behind, red sparkles driven 

Pierce the dark stillness of the midnight heaven. 

And where is she — Pauline? The hurrying throng 
Have swept her onward, as a stormy blast 

Might sweep some faint o'erwearied bird along — 
Till now the threshold of that death is past, 

And free she stands beneath the starry skies, 

Calling her child — but no sweet voice replies. 

" Bertha ! where art thou ? Speak ! oh ! speak, my 
own !" 
Alas ! unconscious of her pangs the while, 
The gentle girl, in fear's cold grasp alone, 

Powerless had sunk within the blazing pile ; 
A young bright form, deck'd gloriously for death, 
With flowers all shrinking from the flame's fierce 
breath ! 

But oh ! thy strength, deep love ! There is no power 
To stay the mother from that rolling grave, 



JUANA. 



405 



Though fast on high the fiery volumes tower, 

And forth like banners from each lattice wave : 
Back, back she rushes through a host combined — 
Mighty is anguish, with affection twined ! 

And what bold step may follow, midst the roar 
Of the red billows, o'er their prey that rise ] 

None ! — Courage there stood still — and nevermore 
Did those fair forms emerge on human eyes ! 

Was one bright meeting theirs, one wild farewell 1 ? 

And died they heart to heart? — Oh ! who can tell 1 

Freshly and cloudlessly the morning broke 
On that sad palace, midst its pleasure shades ; 

Its painted roofs had sunk — yet black with smoke 
And lonely stood its marble colonnades : 

But yester eve their shafts with wreaths were bound, 

Now lay the scene one shrivell'd scroll around ! 

And bore the ruins no recording trace 

Of all that woman's heart had dared and done ? 

Yes ! there were gems to mark its mortal place, 
That forth fronvdust and ashes dimly shone ! 

Those had the mother, on her gentle breast, 

Worn round her child's fair image, there at rest. 

And they were all ! — the tender and the true 
Left this alone her sacrifice to prove, 

Hallowing the spot where mirth once lightly flew, 
To deep lone chasten'd thoughts of grief and love. 

Oh ! we have need of patient faith below, 

To clear away the mysteries of such woe ! 



JUANA. 

[ Juana, mother of the Emperor Charles V. , upon the death 
of her husband, Philip the Handsome of Austria, who had 
treated her with uniform neglect, had his body laid upon a 
bed of state, in a magnificent dress ; and being possessed with 
the idea that it would revive, watched it for a length of time, 
incessantly waiting for the moment of returning life.] 

It is but dust thou look'st upon. This love, 
This wild and passionate idolatry, 
What doth it in the shadow of the grave ? 
Gather it back within thy lonely heart, 
So must it ever end : too much we give 
TJnto the things that perish. 

The night-wind shook the tapestry round an an- 
cient palace room, 

And torches, as it rose and fell, waved through the 
gorgeous gloom, 

And o'er a shadowy regal couch threw fitful gleams 
and red, 



Where a woman with long raven hair sat watching 
by the dead. 

Pale shone the features of the dead, yet glorious 

still to see, 
Like a hunter or a chief struck down while his 

heart and step were free : 
No shroud he wore, no robe of death, but there 

majestic lay, 
Proudly and sadly glittering in royalty's array. 

But she that with the dark hair watch'd by the 
cold slumberer's side, 

On he?* wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and in her 
garb no pride ; 

Only her full impassion'd eyes as o'er that clay 
she bent, 

A wildness and a tenderness in strange resplen- 
dence blent. 

And as the swift thoughts cross'd her soul, like 
shadows of a cloud, [aloud ; 

Amidst the silent room of death the dreamer spoke 

She spoke to him that could not hear, and cried, 
" Thou yet wilt wake, 

And learn my watchings and my tears, beloved 
one ! for thy sake. 

" They told me this was death, but well I knew 

it could not be ; 
Fairest and stateliest of the earth ! who spoke of 

death for thee ? 
They would have wrapp'd the funeral shroud thy 

gallant form around, 
But I forbade — and there thou art, a monarch, 

robed and crown'd ! 

" With all thy bright locks gleaming still, their 

coronal beneath, 
And thy brow so proudly beautiful — who said that 

this was death 1 
Silence hath been upon thy lips, and stillness 

round thee long, 
But the hopeful spirit in my breast is all undimm'd 

and strong. 

" I know thou hast not loved me yet ; I am not 
fair like thee, 

The very glance of whose clear eye threw round 
a light of glee ! 

A frail and drooping form is mine — a cold un- 
smiling cheek — ■ 

Oh ! I have but a woman's heart wherewith thy 
heart to seek. 



406 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



" But when thou wakest, my prince, my lord ! and 

hear'st how I have kept 
A lonely vigil by thy side, and o'er thee pray'd 

and wept — ■ 
How in one long deep dream of thee my nights 

and days have past — 
Surely that humble patient love must win back 

love at last ! 

And thou wilt smile — my own, my own, shall be 

the sunny smile, 
Which brightly fell, and joyously, on all but me 

erewhile ! 
No more in vain affection's thirst my weary soul 

shall pine — 
Oh ! years of hope deferr'd were paid by one fond 

glance of thine ! 

" Thou'lt meet me with that radiant look when 

thou comest from the chase — 
For me, for me, in festal halls it shall kindle o'er 

thy face ! 
Thou'lt reck no more though beauty's gift mine 

aspect may not bless ; 
In thy kind eyes this deep, deep love shall give 

me loveliness. 

" But wake ! my heart within me burns, yet once 

more to rejoice 
In the sound to which it ever leap'd, the music 

of thy voice. 
Awake ! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and 

tone, 
And the gladness of thine opening eyes, may all 

be mine alone." 

In the still chambers of the dust, thus pour'd forth 

day by day, 
The passion of that loving dream from a troubled 

soul found way, 
Until the shadows of the grave had swept o'er 

every grace, 
Left midst the awfulness of death on the princely 

form and face. 

And slowly broke the fearful truth upon the 

watcher's breast, 
And they bore away the royal dead with requiems 

to his rest, 
With banners and with knightly plumes all waving 

in the wind — 
But a woman's broken heart was left in its lone 

despair behind. 



THE AMERICAN FOREST GIRL. 

A fearful gift upon thy heart is laid, 
Woman !— a power to suffer and to love ; 
Therefore thou so canst pity. 

Wildly and mournfully the Indian drum 

On the deep hush of moonlight forests broke — 
" Sing us a death-song, for thine hour is come" — 

So the red warriors to their captive spoke. 
Still, and amidst those dusky forms alone, 

A youth, a fair-hair'd youth of England stood, 
Like a king's son; though from his cheek had 
flown 

The mantling crimson of the island blood, 
And his press'd lips look'd marble. Fiercely bright 
And high around him blazed the fires of night, 
Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro, 
As the wind pass'd, and with a fitful glow 
Lighting the victim's face : but who could tell 
Of what within his secret heart befell, [thought 
Known but to heaven that hour 1 Perchance a 
Of his far home then so intensely wrought, 
That its full image, pictured to his eye 
On the dark ground of mortal agony, 
Rose clear as day !— and he might see the band 
Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand, 
Where the laburnums droop'd ; or haply binding 
The jasmine up the door's low pillars winding; 
Or, as day closed upon their gentle mirth, 
Gathering, with braided hair, around the hearth, 
Where sat their mother ; and that mother's face 
Its grave sweet smile yet wearing in the place 
Where so it ever smiled ! Perchance the prayer 
Learn'd at her knee came back on his despair ; 
The blessing from her voice, the very tone [gone! 
Of her " Good-night" might breathe from boyhood 
— He started and look'd up : thick cypress boughs, 

Full of strange sound, waved o'er him, darkly red 
In the broad stormy firelight ; savage brows, 

With tall plumes crested and wild hues o'er- 
spread, 
Girt him like feverish phantoms ; and pale stars 
Look'd through the branches as through dungeon 

bars, 
Shedding no hope. He knew, he felt his doom — 
Oh ! what a tale to shadow with its gloom 
That happy hall in England. Idle fear ! 
Would the winds tell it ] Who might dream or hear 
The secret of the forests ? To the stake [strove 
They bound him ; and that proud young soldier 
His father's spirit in his breast to wake, 

Trusting to die in silence ! He, the love 
Of many hearts ! — the fondly rear'd — the fair, 
Gladdening all eyes to see ! And fetter'd there 



COSTANZA. 



407 



He stood beside his death-pyre, and the brand 
Flamed up to light it in the chieftain's hand. 
He thought upon his God. Hush ! hark ! a cry 
Breaks on the stern and dread solemnity — 
A step hath pierced the ring ! "Who dares intrude 
On the dark hunters in their vengeful mood 1 
A girl — a young slight girl — a fawn-like child 
Of green savannas and the leafy wild, 
Springing unmark'd till then, as some lone flower, 
Happy because the sunshine is its dower ; 
Yet one that knew how early tears are shed, 
For hers had mourn'd a playmate-brother dead. 

She had sat gazing on the victim long, 
Until the pity of her soul grew strong ; 
And, by its passion's deepening fervour sway'd, 
Even to the stake she rush'd, and gently laid 
His bright head on her bosom, and around 
His form her slender arms to shield it wound 
Like close Liannes ; then raised her glittering eye, 
And clear-toned voice, that said, "He shall not die!" 
" He shall not die !" — the gloomy forest thrill'd 

To that sweet sound. A sudden wonder fell 
On the fierce throng ; and heart and handwere still'd, 

Struck down as by the whisper of a spell. 
They gazed : their dark souls bo w'd before the maid, 
She of the dancing step in wood and glade ! 
And, as her cheek flush'd through its olive hue, 
As her black tresses to the night-wind flew, 
Something o'ermaster'd them from that young 

mien — 
Something of heaven in silence felt and seen ; 
And seeming, to their childlike faith, a token 
That the Great Spirit by her voice had spoken. 

They loosed the bonds that held their captive's 

breath ; 
From his pale lips they took the cup of death ; 
They quench'd the brand beneath the cypress tree : 
"Away," they cried, "young stranger, thou art free!" 



COSTANZA. 

Art thou then desolate ? 
Of friends, of hopes forsaken ? Come to me ! 
I am thine own. Have trusted hearts proved false ? 
Flatterers deceived thee ? Wanderer, come to me ! 
Why didst thou ever leave me ? Know'st thou all 
I would have borne, and call'd it joy to hear, 
For thy sake ? Know'st thou that thy voice hath power 
To shake me with a thrill of happiness 
By one kind tone ? — to fill mine eyes with tears 
Of yearning love ? And thou— oh ! thou didst throw 
That crush'd affection back upon my heart ; 
Vet come to me !— it died not. 

She knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell 
Through the stain'd window of her lonely cell, 



And with its rich, deep, melancholy glow, 
Flushing her cheek and pale Madonna brow, 
While o'er her long hair's flowing jet it threw 
Bright waves of gold— the autumn forest's hue — 
Seem'd all a vision's mist of glory, spread 
By painting's touch around some holy head, 
Virgin's or fairest martyr's. In her eye 
Which glanced as dark clear water to the sky, 
What solemn fervour lived ! And yet what woe, 
Lay like some buried thing, still seen below 
The glassy tide ! Oh ! he that could reveal 
What life had taught that chasten'd heart to feel, 
Might speak indeed of woman's blighted years, 
And wasted love, and vainly bitter tears ! 
But she had told her griefs to heaven alone, 
And of the gentle saint no more was known, 
Than that she fled the world's cold breath, and made 
A temple of the pine and chestnut shade, 
Filling its depths with soul, whene'er her hymn 
Bose through each murmur of the green, and dim, 
And ancient solitude ; where hidden streams 
Went moaning through the grass, like sounds in 

dreams — 
Music for weary hearts ! Midst leaves and flowers 
She dwelt, and knew all secrets of their powers, 
All nature's balms, wherewith her gliding tread 
To the sick peasant on his lowly bed [birth 

Came and brought hope ! while scarce of mortal 
He deem'd the pale fair form that held on earth 
Communion but with grief. 

Ere long, a cell, 
A rock-hewn chapel rose, a cross of stone 
Gleam'd through the darktreeso'erasparklingwell; 

And a sweet voice, of rich yet mournful tone, 
Told the Calabrian wilds that duly there 
Costanza lifted her sad heart in prayer. 
And now 'twas prayer's own hour. That voice again 
Through the dim foliage sent its heavenly strain, 
That made the cypress quiver where it stood, 
In day's last crimson soaring from the wood 
Like spiry flame. But as the bright sun set, 
Other and wilder sounds in tumult met [peal, 
The floating song. Strange sounds ! — the trumpet's 
Made hollow by the rocks ; the clash of steel ; 
The rallying war-cry. In the mountain pass 
There had been combat ; blood was on the grass, 
Banners had strewn the waters ; chiefs lay dying, 
And the pine branches crash'd before the flying. 

And all was changed within the still retreat, 
Costanza's home : there enter'd hurrying feet, 
Dark looks of shame and sorrow — mail-clad men, 
Stern fugitives from that wild battle-glen, 



408 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



Scaring the ringdoves from the porch roof, bore 
A wounded warrior in. The rocky floor 
Gave back deep echoes to his clanging sword, 
As there they laid their leader, and implored 
The sweet saint's prayers to heal him : then for flight, 
Through the wide forest and the mantling night, 
Sped breathlessly again. They pass'd ; but he, 
The stateliest of a host — alas ! to see 
What mother's eyes have watch'd in rosy sleep, 
Till joy, for very fulness, turn'd to weep, 
Thus changed ! — a fearful thing ! His golden crest 
Was shiver' d, and the bright scarf on his breast — 
Some costly love-gift — rent : but what of these? 
There were the clustering raven locks — the breeze, 
As it came in through lime and myrtle flowers, 
Might scarcely lift them ; steep'd in bloody showers, 
So heavily upon the pallid clay 
Of the damp cheek they hung. The eyes' dark ray, 
Where was it? And the lips ! — they gasp'd apart, 
With, their light curve, as from the chisel's art, 
Still proudly beautiful ! But that white hue — 
Was it not death's? — that stillness — that cold dew 
On the scarr'd forehead ? No ! his spirit broke 
From its deep trance ere long, yet but awoke 
To wander in wild dreams ; and there he lay, 
By the fierce fever as a green reed shaken, 
The haughty chief of thousands — the forsaken 
Of all save one. She fled not. Day by day — 
Such hours are woman's birthright — she, unknown, 
Kept watch beside him, fearless and alone ; 
Binding his wounds, and oft in silence laving 
His brow with tears that mourn'd the strong 

man's raving. 
He felt them not, nor mark'd the light veil'd form 
Still hovering nigh ! yet sometimes, when that 

storm 
Of frenzy sank, her voice, in tones as low 
As a young mother's by the cradle singing, 
Would soothe him with sweet aves, gently bringing 

Moments of slumber, when the fiery glow 
Ebb'd from his hollow cheek. 

At last faint gleams 
Of memory dawn'd upon the cloud of dreams; 
And feebly lifting, as a child, his head, 
And gazing round him from his leafy bed, 
He murmur'd forth, "Where am I? What soft strain 
Pass'd like a breeze across my burning brain? 
Back from my youth it floated, with a tone 
Of life's first music, and a thought of one — 
Where is she now? and where the gauds of pride, 
Whose hollow splendour lured me from her side ? 
All lost !— and this is death ! — I cannot die 
Without forgiveness from that mournful eye ! 



Away ! the earth hath lost her. Was she born 
To brook abandonment, to strive with scorn ? 
My first, my holiest love ! — her broken heart 
Lies low, and I — unpardon'd I depart." 

But then Costanza raised the shadowy veil 
From her dark locks and features brightly pale, 
And stood before him with a smile — oh ! ne'er 
Did aught that smiled so much of sadness wear — 
And said, " Cesario ! look on me ; I live 
To say my heart hath bled, and can forgive, 
I loved thee with such worship, such deep trust, 
As should be heaven's alone — and heaven is just ! 
I bless thee— be at peace !" 

But o'er his frame 
Too fast the strong tide rush'd — the sudden shame, 
The joy, th' amaze ! He bow'd his head — it fell 
On the wrong'd bosom which had loved so well ; 
And love, still perfect, gave him refuge there — 
His last faint breath just waved her floating hair. 



MADELINE. 

A DOMESTIC TALE. 

" "Who should it be ? — Where shouldst thou look for kindness ? 
When we are sick, where can we turn for succour ; 
When we are wretched, where can we complain ; 
And when the world looks cold and surly on us, 
Where can we go to meet a warmer eye 
With such sure confidence as to a mother ? "—Joanna Baii.lie. 

"My child, my child, thou leavest me ! I shall hear 
The gentle voice no more that blest mine ear 
With its first utterance : I shall miss the sound 
Of thy light step amidst the flowers around, 
And thy soft-breathing hymn at twilight's close, 
And thy ' Good-night ' at parting for repose. 
Under the vine-leaves I shall sit alone, 
And the low breeze will have a mournful tone 
Amidst their tendrils, while I think of thee, 
My child ! and thou, along the moon-light sea, 
With a soft sadness haply in thy glance, 
Shalt watch thine own, thy pleasant land of France, 
Fading to air. Yet blessings with thee go ! 
Love guard thee, gentlest ! and the exile's woe 
From thy young heart be far ! And sorrow not 
For me, sweet daughter ! in my lonely lot, 
God shall be with me. Now, farewell ! farewell ! 
Thou that hast been what words may never tell 
Unto thy mother's bosom, since the days 
When thou wert pillow'd there, and wont to raise 
In sudden laughter thence thy loving eye [by — 
That still sought mine : these moments are gone 



THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA'S TOMB. 



409 



Thou too must go, my flower ! Yet with thee dwell 
The peace of God ! One, one more gaze : farewell! " 

This was a mother's parting with her child— 
A young meek bride, on whom fair fortune smiled, 
And woo'd her with a voice of love away 
From childhood's home : yet there, with fond delay, 
She linger'd on the threshold, heard the note 
Of her caged bird through trellis'd rose-leaves float, 
And fell upon her mother's neck and wept, 
"Whilst old remembrances, that long had slept, 
Gush'd o'er her soul, and many a vanish'd day, 
As in one picture traced, before her lay. 

But the farewell was said ; and on the deep, 
When its breast heaved in sunset's golden sleep, 
With a calm'd heart, young Madeline ere long 
Pour'd forth her own sweet, solemn vesper-song, 
Breathing of home. Through stillness heard afar, 
And duly rising with the first pale star, 
That voice was on the waters; till at last 
The sounding ocean solitudes were pass'd, 
And the bright land was reach'd, the youthful world 
That glows along the West : the sails were fuii'd 
In its clear sunshine, and the gentle bride 
Look'd on the home that promised hearts untried 
A bower of bliss to come. Alas ! we trace 

The map of our own paths, and long ere years 
With their dull steps the brilliant lines efface, [tears ! 

On sweeps the storm, and blots them out with 
That home was darken'd soon : the summer breeze 
Welcomed with death the wanderers from the seas : 
Death unto one, and anguish — how forlorn ! 
To her that, widow'd in her marriage morn, 
Sat in her voiceless dwelling, whence with him, 

Her bosom's first beloved, her friend and guide, 
Joy had gone forth, and left the green earth dim, 

As from the sun shut out on every side 
By the close veil of misery. Oh ! but ill, [heart 

When with rich hopes o'erfraught, the young high 
Bears its first blow ! It knows not yet the part 
Which life will teach — to suffer and be still, 
And with submissive love to count the flowers 
Which yet are spared, and through the future hours 
To send no busy dream ! She had not learn'd 
Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turn'd 
In weariness from life. Then came th' unrest, 
The heart-sick yearning of the exile's breast, 
The haunting sounds of voices far away, 
And household steps : until at last she lay 
On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams 
Of the gay vineyards and blue rushing streams 
In her own sunny land ; and murmuring oft 
Familiar names, in accents wild yet soft, 



To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught 
Of the deep spells wherewith each word was fraught. 
To strangers 1 Oh ! could strangers raise the head 
Gently as hers was raised 1 Did strangers shed 
The kindly tears which bathed that feverish brow 
And wasted cheek with half-unconscious flow 1 
Something was there that, through the lingering 

night, 
Outwatches patiently the taper's light — 
Something that faints not through the day's distress, 
That fears not toil, that knows not weariness — - 
Love, true and perfect love ! Whence came that 

power, 
Uprearing through the storm the drooping flower] 
Whence 1 — who can ask ] The wild delirium pass'd, 
And from her eyes the spirit look'd at last 
Into her mother's face, and wakening knew 
The brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery hue, 
The kind sweet smile of old ! — and had she come, 
Thus in life's evening from her distant home, 
To save her child ] Even so — nor yet in vain ; 
In that young heart a light sprang up again, 
And lovely still, with so much love to give, 
Seem'd this fair world, though faded ; still to live 
Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast 
That rock'd her childhood, sinking in soft rest, 
" Sweet mother ! gentlest mother ! can it be 1" 
The lorn one cried, " and do I look on thee 1 
Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore : 
Peace shall be ours beneath our vines once more." 



THE QUEEN" OF PRUSSIA'S TOMB. 

[" This tomb is in the garden of Charlottenburg, near 
Berlin. It was not without surprise that I came suddenly, 
among trees, upon a fair white Doric temple. I might and 
should have deemed it a mere adornment of the grounds, 
but the cypress and the willow declare it a habitation of the 
dead. Upon a sarcophagus of white marble lay a sheet, and 
the outline of the human form was plainly visible beneath its 
folds. The person with me reverently turned it back, and 
displayed the statue of his queen. It is a portrait statue 
recumbent, said to be a perfect resemblance — not as in death, 
but when she lived to bless and be blessed. Nothing can be 
more calm and kind than the expression of her features. The 
hands are folded on the bosom ; the limbs are sufficiently 
crossed to show the repose of life. Here the king brings her 
children annually, to offer garlands at her grave. These 
hang in withered mournfulness above this living image of their 
departed mother."-— Sherer's Notes and Reflections during 
a Ramble in Germany.'] 

" In sweet pride upon that insult keen 
She smiled ; then drooping mute and brokenhearted, 
To the cold comfort of the grave departed." Milman. 

It stands where northern willows weep, 
A temple fair and lone ; 



410 



RECORDS OF WOMAN. 



Soft shadows o'er its marble sweep 
From cypress branches thrown ; 
"While silently around it spread, 
Thou feel'st the presence of the dead. 

And what within is richly shrined 1 
A sculptured woman's form, 

Lovely, in perfect rest reclined, 
As one beyond the storm : 

Yet not of death, but slumber, lies 

The solemn sweetness on those eyes. 

The folded hands, the calm pure face, 

The mantle's quiet flow, 
The gentle yet majestic grace 

Throned on the matron brow ; 
These, in that scene of tender gloom, 
With a still glory robe the tomb. 

There stands an eagle, at the feet 

Of the fair image wrought ; 
A kingly emblem — nor unmeet 

To wake yet deeper thought : 
She whose high heart finds rest below, 
Was royal in her birth and woe. 

There are pale garlands hung above, 

Of dying scent and hue ; 
She was a mother — in her love 

How sorrowfully true ! 
Oh ! hallow'd long be every leaf, 
The record of her children's grief ! 

She saw their birthright's warrior-crown 

Of olden glory spoil'd, 
The standard of then sires borne down, 

The shield's bright blazon soil'd : 
She met the tempest, meekly brave, 
Then turn'd o'erwearied to the grave. 

She slumber'd : but it came — it came, 

Her land's redeeming hour, 
With the glad shout, and signal flame 

Sent on from tower to tower ! 
Fast through the realm a spirit moved— 
'Twas hers, the lofty and the loved. 

Then was her name a note that rung 
To rouse bold hearts from sleep ; 

Her memory, as a banner flung 
Forth by the Baltic deep ; 

Her grief, a bitter vial pour'd 

To sanctify th' avenger's sword. 



And the crown'd eagle spread again 

His pinion to the sun ; 
And the strong land shook off its chain — 

So was the triumph won ! 
But woe for earth, where sorrow's tone 
Still blends with victory's ! — She was gone ! 



THE MEMORIAL PILLAR. 

[On the road-side, between Penrith and Appleby, stands a 
small pillar, with this inscription : — "This pillar was erected 
in the year 1656, by Ann, Countess-Dowager of Pembroke, 
for a memorial of her last parting, in this place, with her good 
and pious mother, Margaret, Countess-D.owager of Cumber- 
land, on the 2d April 1616." — See notes to the Pleasures of 
Memory.'] 

Mother and child ! whose blending tears 
Have sanctified the place, 

Where, to the love of many years, 
Was given one last embrace — 

Oh ! ye have shrined a spell of power 

Deep in your record of that hour ! 

A spell to waken solemn thought — 

A still, small under tone, 
That calls back days of childhood, fraught 

With many a treasure gone ; 
And smites, perchance, the hidden source, 
Though long untroubled — of remorse. 

For who, that gazes on the stone 

Which marks your parting spot, 
Who but a mother's love hath known— 

The one love changing not 1 
Alas ! and haply learn'd its worth 
First with the sound of " Earth to earth !" 

But thou, high-hearted daughter ! thou, 
O'er whose bright honour'd head 

Blessings and tears of holiest flow 
E'en here were fondly shed — 

Thou from the passion of thy grief, 

In its full burst, couldst draw relief. 

For, oh ! though painful be th' excess, 

The might wherewith it swells, 
In nature's fount no bitterness 

Of nature's mingling dwells ; 
And thou hadst not, by wrong or pride, 
Poison'd the free and healthful tide. 

But didst thou meet the face no more 
Which thy young heart first knew ? 



THE GRAVE OF A POETESS. 



411 



And all — was all in this world o'er 

With ties thus close and true 1 
It was ! On earth no other eye 
Could give thee back thine infancy. 

No other voice could pierce the maze 
Where, deep within thy breast, 

The sounds and dreams of other days 
With memory lay at rest ; 

No other smile to thee could bring 

A gladdening, like the breath of spring. 

Yet, while thy place of weeping still 

Its lone memorial keeps, 
While on thy name, midst wood and hill, 

The quiet sunshine sleeps, 
And touches, in each graven line, 
Of reverential thought a sign ; 

Can I, while yet these tokens wear 

The impress of the dead, 
Think of the love embodied there 

As of a vision fled ? 
A perish'd thing, the joy and flower 
And glory of one earthly hour ] 

Not so ! — I will not bow me so 
To thoughts that breathe despair ! 

A loftier faith we need below, 
Life's farewell words to bear. 

Mother and child ! — your tears are past — 

Surely your hearts have met at last. 



THE GEAVE OF A POETESS. 1 

I stood beside thy lowly grave ; 

Spring odours breathed around, 
And music, in the river wave, 

Pass'd with a lulling sound. 

All happy things that love the sun 

In the bright air glanced by, 
And a glad murmur seem'd to run 

Through the soft azure sky. 

Fresh leaves were on the ivy bough 

That fringed the ruins near ; 
Young voices were abroad — but thou 

Their sweetness couldst not hear. 

1 " Extrinsic interest has lately attached to the fine scenery 
of Woodstock, near Kilkenny, on account of its having been 
the last residence of the author of Psyche. Her grave is one 
of many in the churchyard of the village. The river runs 



And mournful grew my heart for thee ! 

Thou in whose woman's mind 
The ray that brightens earth and sea, 

The light of song, was shrined 

Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low, 

With a dread curtain drawn 
Between thee and the golden glow 

Of this world's vernal dawn. 

Parted from all the song and bloom 
Thou wouldst have loved so well, 

To thee the sunshine round thy tomb 
Was but a broken spell. 

The bird, the insect on the wing, 

In their bright reckless play, 
Might feel the flush and life of spring — 

And thou wert pass'd away. 

But then, e'en then, a nobler thought 

O'er my vain sadness came ; 
Th' immortal spirit woke, and wrought 

Within my thrilling frame. 

Surely on lovelier things, I said, 
Thou must have look'd ere now, 

Than all that round our pathway shed 
Odours and hues below. 

The shadows of the tomb are here, 

Yet beautiful is earth ! 
What see'st thou, then, where no dim fear, 

No haunting dream hath birth 1 

Here a vain love to passing flowers 
Thou gavest ; but where thou art, 

The sway is not with changeful hours — 
Tliere love and death must part. 

Thou hast left sorrow in thy song, 

A voice not loud but deep ! 
The glorious bowers of earth among, 

How often didst thou weep ? 

Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground 
Thy tender thoughts and high 1 — 

Now peace the woman's heart hath found, 
And joy the poet's eye. 



smoothly by. The ruins of an ancient abbey, that have been 
partially converted into a church, reverently throw their 
mantle of tender shadow over it." — Talcs by the O'Hara 
Family. 



412 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 






THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 


THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE. 


" "Where's the coward that would not dare 


" I have dreamt thou wert 


To fight for such a land ? " Marmion. 


A captive in thy hopelessness ; afar 




From the sweet home of thy young infancy, 


The stately homes of England ! 


Whose image unto thee is as a dream 

Of fire and slaughter ; I can see thee wasting, 


How beautiful they stand, 


Sick for thy native air." L. E. L. 


Amidst their tall ancestral trees, 




O'er all the pleasant land ! 


The champions had come from their fields of war, 


The deer across their greensward bound, 


Over the crests of the billows far ; [shores, 


Through shade and sunny gleam ; 


They had brought back the spoils of a hundred 


And the swan glides past them with the sound 


Where the deep had foam'd to their flashing oars. 


Of some rejoicing stream. 






They sat at their feast round the Norse king's 


The merry homes of England ! 


board ; 


Around their hearths by night, 


By the glare of the torch-light the mead was pour'd; 


What gladsome looks of household love 


The hearth was heap'd with the pine-boughs high, 


Meet in the ruddy light ! 


And it flung a red radiance on shields thrown by. 


There woman's voice flows forth in song, 




Or childhood's tale is told, 


The Scalds had chanted in Bunic rhyme 


Or lips move tunefully along 


Their songs of the sword and the olden time ; 


Some glorious page of old. 


And a solemn thrill, as the harp-chords rung, 




Had breathed from the walls where the bright 


The blessed homes of England ! 


spears hung. 


How softly on their bowers 




Is laid the holy quietness 


But the swell was gone from the quivering string, 


That breathes from Sabbath hours ! 


They had summon'd a softer voice to sing ; 


Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime 


And a captive girl, at the warriors' call, 


Floats through their woods at morn ; 


Stood forth in the midst of that frowning hall. 


All other sounds, in that still time, 




Of breeze and leaf are born. 


Lonely she stood, — in her mournful eyes 




Lay the clear midnight of southern skies ; 


The cottage homes of England ! 


And the drooping fringe of their lashes low 


By thousands on her plains, 


Half-veil'd a depth of unfathom'd woe. 


They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, 




And round the hamlet fanes. 


Stately she stood — though her fragile frame 


Through glowing orchards forth they peep, 


Seem'd struck with the blight of some inward flame, 


Each from its nook of leaves; 


And her proud pale brow had a shade of scorn, 


And fearless there the lowly sleep, 


Under the waves of her dark hair worn. 


As the bird beneath their eaves. 






And a deep flush pass'd, like a crimson haze, 


The free, fair homes of England ! 


O'er her marble cheek by the pine-fire's blaze — 


Long, long, in hut and hall, 


No soft hue caught from the south wind's breath, 


May hearts of native proof be rear'd 


But a token of fever at strife with death. 


To guard each hallow'd wall ! 




And green for ever be the groves, 


She had been torn from her home away, 


And bright the flowery sod, 


With her long locks crown'd for her bridal-day, 


"Where first the child's glad spirit loves 


And brought to die of the burning dreams 


Its country and its God ! 


That haunt the exile by foreign streams. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



413 



They bade her sing of her distant land — 
She held its lyre with a trembling hand, 
Till the spirit its blue skies had given her woke, 
And the stream of her voice into music broke. 

Faint was the strain, in its first wild flow — 
Troubled its murmur, and sad and low ; 
But it swell'd into deeper power ere long, 
As the breeze that swept o'er her soul grew 
strong. 

" They bid me sing of thee, mine own, my sunny 
land ! of thee ! 

Am I not parted from thy shores by the mourn- 
ful-sounding sea ? 

Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul ? In silence 
let me die, 

In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts, and 
thy pure, deep sapphire sky : 

How should thy lyre give here its wealth of buried 
sweetness forth — 

Its tones of summer's breathings born, to the wild 
winds of the north 1 

" Yet thus it shall be once, once more ! My 

spirit shall awake, 
And through the mists of death shine out, my 

country, for thy sake ! 
That I may make thee known, with all the beauty 

and the light, 
And the glory never more to bless thy daughter's 

yearning sight ! 
Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy bright 

streams warble by, 
Thy soul flow o'er my lips again — yet once, my 

Sicily ! 

" There are blue heavens — far hence, far hence ! 

but, oh ! their glorious blue ! 
Its very night is beautiful with the hyacinth's 

deep hue ! 
It is above my own fair land, and round my 

laughing home, 
And arching o'er my vintage hills, they hang their 

cloudless dome ; 
And making all the waves as gems, that melt along 

the shore, 
And steeping happy hearts in joy — that now is 

mine no more. 

"And there are haunts in that green land — oh ! 

who may dream or tell 
Of all the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and 

dell! 



By fountains flinging rainbow-spray on dark and 
glossy leaves, 

And bowers wherein the forest-dove her nest 
untroubled weaves ; 

The myrtle dwells there, sending round the rich- 
ness of its breath, 

And the violets gleam like amethysts from the 
dewy moss beneath. 

" And there are floating sounds that fill the skies 

through night and day — 
Sweet sounds ! the soul to hear them faints in 

dreams of heaven away ; 
They wander through the olive woods, and o'er 

the shining seas — 
They mingle with the orange scents that load the 

sleepy breeze ; 
Lute, voice, and bird are blending there, — it 

were a bliss to die, 
As dies a leaf, thy groves among, my flowery Sicily ! 

" / may not thus depart — farewell ! Yet no, my 

country ! no ! 
Is not love stronger than the grave! I feel it 

must be so ! 
My fleeting spirit shall o'ersweep the mountains 

and the main, 
And in thy tender starlight rove, and through 

thy woods again. 
Its passion deepens — it prevails ! — I break my 

chain — I come 
To dwell a viewless thing, yet blest — in thy sweet 

air, my home !" 

And her pale arms dropp'd the ringing lyre — 
There came a mist o'er her eye's wild fire — ■ 
And her dark rich tresses in many a fold, 
Loosed from their braids, down her bosom roll'd. 

For her head sank back on the rugged wall — 
A silence fell o'er the warriors' hall ; 
She had pour'd out her soul with her song's last tone : 
The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone ! 



IVAN THE CZAR. 

[" Ivan le Terrible, etant deja devenu vieux, assiegait Nov- 
gorod. Les Boyards, le voyant affoibli, lui demanderent 
s'il ne voulait pas dormer le commandement de l'assaut a son 
rils. Sa fureur fut si grande a cette proposition, que rien ne 
put l'appaiser ; son fils se prosterna a ses pieds ; il le repoussa 
avec un coup d'une telle violence, que deux jours apres le 
malheureux en rnourut. Le pere, alors au desespoir, devint 



414 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


indifferent a la guerre comme au pouvoir, et ne surv^cut que 


Wake as the storm wakes ! I will brook 


peu de mois a son fils." — Dix Annies d'Exil,par Madame 


All, save this calm, from thee ! 


de Stael.] 

" Gieb diesen Todten mir heraus. Ich muss 


Lift brightly up, and proudly, 


Ihn wieder haben ! 


Once more thy kindling eyes ! 


Trostlose allmacht, 


Hath my word lost its power on earth 1 


Die nicht einmal in Graber ihren arm 


I say to thee, arise ! 


Verlangern, eine kleine Ubereilung 


Mit Menschenleben nicht verbessern kann ! " Schiller. 




He sat in silence on the ground, 


" Didst thou not luiow I loved thee well ! 


The old and haughty Czar, 


Thou didst not ! and art gone, 


Lonely, though princes girt him round, 


In bitterness of soul, to dwell 


And leaders of the war ; 


Where man must dwell alone. 


He had cast his jewell'd sabre, 


Come back, young fiery spirit ! 


That many a field had won, 


If but one hour, to learn 


To the earth beside his youthful dead — 


The secrets of the folded heart 


His fair and first-born son. 


That seem'd to thee so stern. 


With a robe of ermine for its bed 


" Thou wert the first, the first, fair child 


"Was laid that form of clay, 


That in mine arms I press'd : 


Where the light a stormy sunset shed 


Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled 


Through the rich tent made way ; 


Like summer on my breast • 


And a sad and solemn beauty 


I rear'd thee as an eagle, 


On the pallid face came down, 


To the chase thy steps I led, 


Which the lord of nations mutely watch'd, 


I bore*thee on my battle-horse, 


In the dust, with his renown. 


I look upon thee — dead ! 


Low tones at last, of woe and fear, 


" Lay down my warlike banners here, 


From his full bosom broke — 


Never again to wave, 


A mournful thing it was to hear 


And bury my red sword and spear, 


How then the proud man spoke ! 


Chiefs ! in my first-born's grave ! 


The voice that through the combat 


And leave me ! — I have conquer'd, 


Had shouted far and high, 


I have slain : my work is done ! 


Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones, 


Whom have I slain ? Ye answer not — 


Burden'd with agony. 


Thou too art mute, my son ! " 


" There is no crimson on thy cheek, 


And thus his wild lament was pour'd 


And on thy lip no breath ; 


Through the dark resounding night, 


I call thee, and thou dost not speak — 


And the battle knew no more his sword, 


They tell me this is death ! 


Nor the foaming steed his might. 


And fearful things are whispering 


He heard strange voices moaning 


That I the deed have done — 


In every wind that sigh'd ; 


For the honour of thy father's name, 


From the searching stars of heaven he shrank — ■ 


Look up, look up, my son ! 


Humbly the conqueror died. 


" Well might I know death's hue and mien — 





But on thine aspect, boy ! 




What, till this moment, have I seen 


CAROLAN'S PROPHECY. 


Save pride and tameless joy] 




Swiftest thou wert to battle, 


[" It is somewhat remarkable that Carolan, the Irish bard, 


And bravest there of all — 


even in his gayest mood, never could compose a planxty for a 
Miss Brett, in the county of Sligo, whose father's house he 


How could I think a warrior's frame 


frequented, and where he always met with a reception due to 


Thus like a flower should fall ? 


his exquisite taste and mental endowments. One day, after 




an unsuccessful attempt to compose something in a sprightly 


" I will not bear that still cold look — 


strain for this lady, he threw aside his harp with a mixture of 
rage and grief ; and addressing himself in Irish to her mother, 


Rise up, thou fierce and free ! 


' Madam,' said he, ' I have often, from my great respect to 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



415 



your family, attempted a planxty in order to celebrate your 
daughter's perfections, but to no purpose. Some evil genius 
hovers over me ; there is not a string in my harp that does 
not vibrate a melancholy sound when I set about this task. 
I fear she is not doomed to remain long among us ; nay,' 
said he emphatically, ' she will not survive twelve months.' 
The event verified the prediction, and the young lady died 
within the period limited by the unconsciously prophetic 
bard."— Percy Anecdotes.'] 

Thy cheek too swiftly flushes, o'er thine eye 
The lights and shadows come and go too fast ; 
Thy tears gush forth too soon, and in thy voice 
Are sounds of tenderness too passionate 
For peace on earth : oh ! therefore, child of song ! 
'Tis well thou shouldst depart. 

A sound of music, from amidst the hills, 
Came suddenly, and died ; a fitful sound 
Of mirth, soon lost in wail. Again it rose, 
And sank in mournfulness. There sat a bard 
By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept 
Flashing through rock and wood : the sunset's light 
Was on his wavy, silver-gleaming hair, 
And the wind's whisper in the mountain ash, 
Whose clusters droop'd above. His head was bow'd, 
His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch 
Had drawn but broken strains ; and many stood 
Waiting around, in silent earnestness, 
Th' unchaining of his soul, the gush of song — 
Many and graceful forms ! — yet one alone 
Seem'd present to his dream ; and she, indeed, 
With her pale virgin brow, and changeful cheek, 
And the clear starlight of her serious eyes, 
Lovely amidst the flowing of dark locks 
And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful, 
E'en painfully ! — a creature to behold 
With trembling midst our joy, lest aught unseen 
Should waft the vision from us, leaving earth 
Too dim without its brightness ! Did such fear 
O'ershadow in that hour the gifted one, 
By his own rushing stream 1 Once more he gazed 
Upon the radiant girl, and yet once more [out 
From the deep chords his wandering hand brought 
A few short festive notes, an opening strain 
Of bridal melody, soon dash'd with grief — 
As if some wailing spirit in the strings 
Met and o'ermaster'd him ; but yielding then 
To the strong prophet impulse, mournfully, 
Like moaning waters o'er the harp he pour'd 
The trouble of his haunted soul, and sang — 

" Voice of the grave ! 

I hear thy thrilling call ; 
It comes in the dash of the foaming wave, 

In the sere leafs trembling fall ! 
In the shiver of the tree, 

I hear thee, thou voice ! 



And I would thy warning were but for me, 
That my spirit might rejoice. 

" But thou art sent 

For the sad earth's young and fair, 
For the graceful heads that have not bent 

To the wintry hand of care ! 
They hear the wind's low sigh, 

And the river sweeping free, 
And the green reeds murmuring heavily, 

And the woods — but they hear not thee ! 

"Long have I striven 

With my deep-foreboding soul, 
But the full tide now its bounds hath riven, 

And darkly on must roll. 
There's a young brow smiling near, 

With a bridal white-rose wreath — 
Unto me it smiles from a flowery bier, 

Touch'd solemnly by death ! 

" Fair art thou, Morna ! 

The sadness of thine eye 
Is beautiful as silvery clouds 

On the dark-blue summer sky ! 
And thy voice comes like the sound 

Of a sweet and hidden rill, 
That makes the dim woods tuneful round — 

But soon it must be still ! 

" Silence and dust 

On thy sunny lips must lie — 
Make not the strength of love thy trust, 

A stronger yet is nigh ! 
No strain of festal flow 

That my hand for thee hath tried, 
But into dirge-notes wild and low 

Its ringing tones have died. 

" Young art thou, Morna ! 

Yet on thy gentle head, 
Like heavy dew on the lily's leaves, 

A spirit hath been shed ! 
And the glance is thine which sees 

Through nature's awful heart — 
But bright things go with the summer breeze, 

And thou too must depart ! 

" Yet, shall I weep 1 

I know that in thy breast 
There swells a fount of song too deep, 

Too powerful for thy rest ! 
And the bitterness I know, 

And the chill of this world's breath— 



41* 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Go — all undimm'd in thy glory, go ! 
Young and crown'd bride of death ! 

" Take hence to heaven 

Thy holy thoughts and bright, 
And soaring hopes, that were not given 

For the touch of mortal blight ! 
Might we follow in thy track, 

This parting should not be ! 
But the spring shall give us violets back, 

And every flower but thee ! " 

There was a burst of tears around the bard : 
All wept but one — and she serenely stood, 
With her clear brow and dark religious eye 
Eaised to the first faint star above the hills, 
And cloudless; though it might be that her cheek 
Was paler than before. So Morna heard 
The minstrel's prophecy. 

And spring return'd, 
Bringing the earth her lovely things again — 
All, save the loveliest far ! A voice, a smile, 
A young sweet spirit gone. 



THE LADY OF THE CASTLE. 

FROM THE " PORTRAIT GALLERY," AN UNFINISHED POEM. 

If there be but one spot on thy name, 

One eye thou fear'st to meet, one human voice 

Whose tones thou shrink'st from — Woman ! veil thy face, 

And bow thy head— and die ! 

Thou see'st her pictured with her shining hair, 

(Famed were those tresses in Provencal song,) 
Half braided, half o'er cheek and bosom fair 

Let loose, and pouring sunny waves along 
Her gorgeous vest. A child's light hand is roving 
Midst the rich curls; and, oh! how meekly loving 
Its earnest looks are lifted to the face 
Which bends to meet its lip in laughing grace ! 
Yet that bright lady's eye, methinks, hath less 
Of deep, and still, and pensive tenderness, 
Than might beseem a mother's ; on her brow 

Something too much there sits of native scorn, 
And her smile kindles with a conscious glow 

As from the thought of sovereign beauty born. 
These may be dreams — but how shall woman tell 
Of woman's shame, and not with tears 1 She fell ! 
That mother left that child ! — went hurrying by, 
Its cradle — haply not without a sigh, 
Haply one moment o'er its rest serene 
She hung. But no ! it could not thus have been, 



For she went on I — forsook her home, her hearth, 
All pure affection, all sweet household mirth, 
To live a gaudy and dishonour'd thing, 
Sharing in guilt the splendours of a king. 

Her lord, in very weariness of life, 

Girt on his sword for scenes of distant strife. 

He reck'd no more of glory : grief and shame 

Crush'd out his fiery nature, and his name 

Died silently. A shadow o'er his halls 

Crept year by year : the minstrel pass'd their walls ; 

The warder'shornhung mute. Meantime the child 

On whose first flowering thoughts no parent smiled, 

A gentle girl, and yet deep-hearted, grew 

Into sad youth ; for well, too well, she knew 

Her mother's tale ! Its memory made the sky 

Seem all too joyous for her shrinking eye ; 

Check'd on her lip the flow of song, which fain 

Would there have linger'd ; flush'd her cheek to pain, 

If met by sudden glance ; and gave a tone 

Of sorrow, as for something lovely gone, 

E'en to the spring's glad voice. Her own was low 

And plaintive. Oh ! there lie such depths of woe 

In a young blighted spirit ! Manhood rears 

A haughty brow, and age has done with tears; 

But youth bows down to misery, in amaze 

At the dark cloud o'ermantling its fresh days ; — 

And thus it was with her. A mournful sight 

In one so fair — for she indeed was fair ; 
Not with her mother's dazzling eyes of light — 
Hers were more shadowy, full of thought and 

prayer, 
And with long lashes o'er a white-rose cheek 
Drooping in gloom, yet tender still and meek, 
Still that fond child's— and oh ! the brow above 
So pale and pure ! so form'd for holy love 
To gaze upon in silence ! But she felt 
That love was not for her, though hearts would melt 
Where'er she moved, and reverence mutely given 
Went with her ; and low prayers, that call'd on 

heaven 
To bless the young Isaure. 

One sunny morn 
With alms before her castle-gate she stood, 
Midst peasant groups : when, breathless and o'er- 
worn, 
And shrouded in long weeds of widowhood, 
A stranger through them broke. The orphan maid, 
With her sweet voice and proffer'd hand of aid, 
Turn'd to give welcome ; but a wild sad look 
Met hers — a gaze that all her spirit shook ; 
And that pale woman, suddenly subdued 
By some strong passion, in its gushing mood, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



417 



Knelt at her feet, and bathed them with such tears 
As rain the hoarded agonies of years [press'd 
From the heart's urn ; and with her white lips 
The ground they trod ; then, burying in her vest 
Her brow's deep flush, sobb'd out — "0 undefiled! 
I am thy mother — spurn me not, my child ! " 

Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother ; wept 
O'er her stain'd memory, while the happy slept 
In the hush'd midnight; stood with mournful gaze 
Before yon picture's smile of other days, 
But never breathed in human ear the name 
Which weigh'd her being to the earth with shame. 
What marvel if the anguish, the surprise, 
The dark remembrances, the alter'd guise, 
Awhile o'erpower'd her 1 From the weeper's touch 
She shrank — 'twas but a moment — yet too much 
For that all-humbled one ; its mortal stroke 
Came down like lightning, and her full heart broke 
At once in silence. Heavily and prone 
She sank, while o'er her castle's threshold stone, 
Those long fair tresses — they still brightly wore 
Their early pride, though bound with pearls no 

more — 
Bursting their fillet, in sad beauty roll'd, 
And swept the dust with coils of wavy gold. 

Her child bent o'erher — call'dher : 'twas too late — 
Dead lay the wanderer at her own proud gate ! 
The joy of courts, the star of knight and bard — 
How didst thou fall, bright-hair'd Ermengarde ! 



THE MOURNER FOR THE BARMECIDES. 



" good old man ! how well in thee appears 
The constant service of the antique world ! 
Thou art not for the fashion of these times.'' 

As You Like It. 



Fallen was the house of Giafar ; and its name, 
The high romantic name of Barmecide, 
A sound forbidden on its own bright shores, 
By the swift Tigris' wave. Stern Haroun's wrath, 
Sweeping the mighty with their fame away, 
Had so pass'd sentence : but man's chainless heart 
Hides that within its depths which never yet 
Th' oppressor's thought could reach. 

'Twas desolate 
Where Giafar's halls, beneath the burning sun, 
Spread out in ruin lay. The songs had ceased ; 
The lights, the perfumes, and the genii tales 



Had ceased ; the guests were gone. Yet still one 
voice [courts, 

Was there — the fountain's ; through those Eastern 
Over the broken marble and the grass, 
Its low clear music shedding mournfully. 

And still another voice ! An aged man, 

Yet with a dark and fervent eye beneath 

His silvery hair, came day by day, and sate 

On a white column's fragment ; and drew forth, 

From the forsaken walls and dim arcades, 

A tone that shook them with its answering thrill, 

To his deep accents. Many a glorious tale 

He told that sad yet stately solitude, 

Pouring his memory's fulness o'er its gloom, 

Like waters in the waste ; and calling up, 

By song or high recital of their deeds, 

Bright solemn shadows of its vanish'd race 

To people their own halls : with these alone, 

In all this rich and breathing world, his thoughts 

Held still unbroken converse. He had been 

Rear'd in this lordly dwelling, and was now 

The ivy of its ruins, unto which 

His fading life seem'd bound. Day roll'd on day, 

And from that scene the loneliness was fled ; 

For crowds around the gray-hair'd chronicler 

Met as men meet, within whose anxious hearts 

Fear with deep feeling strives ; till, as a breeze 

Wanders through forest branches, and is met 

By one quick sound and shiver of the leaves, 

The spirit of his passionate lament, 

As through their stricken souls it pass'd, awoke 

One echoing murmur. But this might not be 

Under a despot's rule, and, summon'd thence, 

The dreamer stood before the Caliph's throne : 

Sentenced to death he stood, and deeply pale, 

And with his white lips rigidly compress'd ; 

Till, in submissive tones, he ask'd to speak 

Once more, ere thrust from earth's fair sunshine 

forth. 
Was it to sue for grace 1 His burning heart 
Sprang, with a sudden lightning, to his eye, 
And he was changed ! — and thus, in rapid words, 
Th' o'ermastering thoughts, more strong than 

death, found way : — 

"And shall I not rejoice to go, when the noble 

and the brave, 
With the glory on their brows, are gone before me 

to the grave 1 
What is there left to look on now, what brightness 

in the land"? 
I hold in scorn the faded world, that wants their 

princely band ! 



411 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



" My chiefs ! my chiefs ! the old man comes that 

in your halls was nursed — 
That follow'd you to many a fight, where flash'd 

your sabres first — 
That bore your children in his arms, your name 

upon his heart : — 
Oh ! must the music of that name with him from 

earth depart ? 

" It shall not be ! A thousand tongues, though 

human voice were still, 
With that high sound the living air triumphantly 

shall fill; 
The wind's free flight shall bear it on as wandering 

seeds are sown, 
And the starry midnight whisper it with a deep 

and thrilling tone. 

" For it is not as a flower whose scent with the 
dropping leaves expires, 

And it is not as a household lamp, that a breath 
should quench its fires ; 

It is written on our battle-fields with the writing 
of the sword, 

It hath left upon our desert-sands a light in bless- 
ings pour'd. 

" The founts, the many gushing founts which to 

the wild ye gave, 
Of you, my chiefs ! shall sing aloud, as they pour 

a joyous wave; 
And the groves, with whose deep lovely gloom ye 

hung the pilgrim's way, 
Shall send from all their sighing leaves your praises 

on the day. 

" The very walls your bounty rear'd for the stran- 
ger's homeless head, [rious dead ! 

Shall find a murmur to record your tale, my glo- 

Though the grass be where ye feasted once, where 
lute and cittern rung, 

And the serpent in your palaces lie coil'd amidst 
its young. 

" It is enough ! Mine eye no more of joy or splen- 
dour sees — 

I leave your name in lofty faith to the skies and 
to the breeze ! 

I go, since earth her flower hath lost, to join the 
bright and fair, 

And call the grave a kingly house, for ye, my 
chiefs ! are there." 

But while the old man sang, a mist of tears 



O'er Haroun's eyes had gather' d, and a thought — 
Oh ! many a sudden and remorseful thought — 
Of his youth's once-loved friends, the martyr'd 
race, [cried, 

O'erflow'd his softening heart. "Live! live!" he 
" Thou faithful unto death ! Live on, and still 
Speak of thy lords — they were a princely band !" 



THE SPANISH CHAPEL. 1 

" Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, 
In life's early morning, hath hid from our eyes, 
Ere sin threw a veil o'er the spirit's young bloom, 
Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies." 
Mookb. 

I made a mountain brook my guide 

Through a wild Spanish glen, 
And wander'd on its grassy side, 

Far from the homes of men. 

It lured me with a singing tone, 

And many a sunny glance, 
To a green spot of beauty lone, 

A haunt for old romance. 

A dim and deeply bosom'd grove 

Of many an aged tree, 
Such as the shadowy violets love, 

The fawn and forest bee. 

The darkness of the chestnut-bough 

There on the waters lay, 
The bright stream reverently below 

Check'd its exulting play; 

And bore a music all subdued, 

And led a silvery sheen 
On through the breathing solitude 

Of that rich leafy scene. 

For something viewlessly around 

Of solemn influence dwelt, 
In the soft gloom and whispery sound, 

Not to be told, but felt ; 

While, sending forth a quiet gleam 

Across the wood's repose, 
And o'er the twilight of the stream, 

A lowly chapel rose, 

1 Suggested by a scene beautifully described in the Recol- 
lections of the Peninsula. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 419 


A pathway to that still retreat 




Through many a myrtle wound, 


THE KAISER'S FEAST. 


And there a sight — how strangely sweet ! 


[Louis, Emperor of Germany, having put his brother, the 


My steps in wonder bound. 


Palsgrave Rodolphus, under the ban of the empire in the 




twelfth century, that unfortunate prince fled to England, 


For on a brilliant bed of flowers, 


where he died in neglect and poverty. " After his decease, 


E'en at the threshold made, 


his mother Matilda privately invited his children to return to 




Germany; and, by her mediation, during a season of festi- 


As if to sleep through sultry hours, 


vity, when Louis kept wassail in the castle of Heidelberg, the 


A young fair child was laid. 


family of his brother presented themselves before him in the 




garb of suppliants, imploring pity and forgiveness. To this 


To sleep? — oh! ne'er, on childhood's eye 
And silken lashes press'd, 


appeal the victor softened." — Miss Benger's Memoirs of the 
Queen of Bohemia.] 


Did the warm living slumber lie 


The Kaiser feasted in his hall — 


"With such a weight of rest ! 


The red wine mantled high; 




Banners were trembling on the wall 


Yet still a tender crimson glow 


To the peals of minstrelsy : 


Its cheeks' pure marble dyed — 


And many a gleam and sparkle came 


'Twas but the light's faint streaming flow 


From the armour hung around, 


Through roses heap'd beside. 


As it caught the glance of the torch's flame, 




Or the hearth with pine-boughs crown' d. 


I stoop'd — the smooth round arm was chill, 




The soft lips' breath was fled, 


Why fell there silence on the chord 


And the bright ringlets hung so still — 


Beneath the harper's hand 1 


The lovely child was dead ! 


And suddenly from that rich board, 




Why rose the wassail band ] 


"Alas !" I cried, " fair faded thing ! 


The strings were hush'd — the knights made way 


Thou hast wrung bitter tears, 


For the queenly mother's tread, 


And thou hast left a woe, to cling 


As up the hall, in dark array, 


Round yearning hearts for years !" 


Two fair-hair'd boys she led. 


But then a voice came sweet and low — 


She led them e'en to the Kaiser's place, 


I turn'd, and near me sate 


And still before him. stood ; 


A woman with a mourner's brow, 


Till, with strange wonder, o'er his face 


Pale, yet not desolate. 


Flush'd the proud warrior-blood : 




And " Speak, my mother ! speak !" he cried, 


And in her still, clear, matron face, 


" Wherefore this mourning vest 1 


All solemnly serene, 


And the clinging children by thy side, 


A shadow'd image I could trace 


In weeds of sadness drest V 


Of that young slumberer's mien. 






" Well may a mourning vest be mine, 


" Stranger ! thou pitiest me," she said 


And theirs, my son, my son ! 


With lips that faintly smiled, 


Look on the features of thy line 


" As here I watch beside my dead, 


In each fair little one ! 


My fair and precious child. 


Though grief awhile within their eyes 




Hath tamed the dancing glee, 


" But know, the time-worn heart may be 


Yet there thine own quick spirit lies — 


By pangs in this world riven, 


Thy brother's children see ! 


Keener than theirs who yield, like me, 




An angel thus to heaven !" 


" And where is he, thy brother — where ? 




He in thy home that grew, 




And smiling, with his sunny hair, 





Ever to greet thee flew 1 ? 




How would his arms thy neck entwine, 




His fond lips press thy brow ! 



420 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


My son ! oh, call these orphans thine ! — 


As thence the voice of childhood rose 


Thou hast no brother now ! 


To the high vineyards round. 


" What ! from their gentle eyes doth naught 


But still and thoughtful at her knee 


Speak of thy childhood's hours, 


Her children stood that hour, 


And smite thee with a tender thought 


Their bursts of song and dancing glee 


Of thy dead father's towers 1 


Hush'd as by words of power. 


Kind was thy boyish heart and true, 


With bright fix'd wondering eyes, that gazed 


When rear'd together there, 


Up to their mother's face, 


Through the old woods like fawns ye flew — 


With brows through parted ringlets raised, 


Where is thy brother — where 1 


They stood in silent grace. 


" Well didst thou love him then, and he 


While she — yet something o'er her look 


Still at thy side was seen ! 


Of mournfulness was spread — 


How is it that such things can be 


Forth from a poet's magic book 


As though they ne'er had been ? 


The glorious numbers read ; 


Evil was this world's breath, which came 


The proud undying lay, which pour'd 


Between the good and brave ! 


Its light on evil years ; 


Now must the tears of grief and shame 


His of the gifted pen and sword, 1 


Be offer'd to the grave. 


The triumph, and the tears. 


" And let them, let them there be pour'd ! 


She read of fair Erminia's flight, 


Though all unfelt below — 


Which Venice once might hear 


Thine own wrung heart, to love restored, 


Sung on her glittering seas at night 


Shall soften as they flow. 


By many a gondolier : 


Oh ! death is mighty to make peace ; 


Of him she read, who broke the charm 


Now bid his work be done ! 


That wrapt the myrtle grove ; 


So many an inward strife shall cease — 


Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm, 


Take, take these babes, my son ! " 


That slew his Paynim love. 


His eye was dimm'd— the strong man shook 


Young cheeks around that bright page glow'd, 


With feelings long suppi-ess'd ; 


Young holy hearts were stirr'd ; 


Up in his arms the boys he took, 


And the meek tears of woman flow'd 


And strain'd them to his breast. 


Fast o'er each burning word. 


And a shout from all in the royal hall 


And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf, 


Burst forth to hail the sight ; 


Came sweet, each pause between, 


And eyes were wet midst the brave that met 


When a strange voice of sudden grief 


At the Kaiser's feast that night. 


Burst on the gentle scene. 




The mother turn'd — a way-worn man, 




In pilgrim garb, stood nigh, 




Of stately mien, yet wild and wan, 


TASSO AND HIS SISTER. 


Of proud yet mournful eye. 




But drops which would not stay for pride 


" Devant vous est Sorrente ; la demeuroit la soeur de Tasse, quand 


From that dark eye gush'd free, 


il vint en pelerin demander a eette obscure amie un asyle contre l'in- 


As pressing his pale brow, he cried, 


justice des princes.— Ses longues douleurs avaient presque egare sa 
raison ; il ne lui restoit plus que son genie." — Corinne. 


" Forgotten ! e'en by thee ! 


She sat, where on each wind that sigh'd 


" Am I so changed 1 — and yet we two 


The citron's breath went by, 


Oft hand in hand have play'd ; 


While the red gold of eventide 


This brow hath been all bathed in dew 


Burn'd in the Italian sky. 


From wreaths which thou hast made ; 


Her bower was one where daylight's close 


1 It is scarcely necessary to recall the well-known Italian say- 


Full oft sweet laughter found, 


ing, that Tasso, with his sword and pen, was superior to all men. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 421 


We have knelt down and said one prayer, 


What wind shall point the way 


And sung one vesper strain ; 


To the chambers where thou'rt lying ] 


My soul is dim with clouds of care — 


Come to me thence, and say 


Tell me those words again ! 


If thou thought' st on me in dying ? 




I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless lip 


"Life hath been heavy on my head — 


and cheek. 


I come a stricken deer, 


Come to me from the ocean's dead! — thou'rt surely 


Bearing the heart, midst crowds that bled, 


of them — speak ! " 


To bleed in stillness here." 




She gazed, till thoughts that long had slept 


She listen' d — 'twas the wind's low moan, 


Shook all her thrilling frame — 


'Twas the ripple of the wave, 


She fell upon his neck and wept, 


'Twas the wakening osprey's cry alone 


Murmuring her brother's name. 


As it startled from its cave. 


Her 'brother's name ! — and who was he, 


" I know each fearful spell 


The weary one, th' unknown, 


Of the ancient Runic lay, 


That came, the bitter world to flee, 


Whose mutter'd words compel 


A stranger to his own ? 


The tempest to obey. 


He was the bard of gifts divine 


But I adjure not thee 


To sway the souls of men ; 


By magic sign or song ; 


He of the song for Salem's shrine, 


My voice shall stir the sea 


He of the sword and pen ! 


By love — the deep, the strong ! 




By the might of woman's tears, by the passion of 




her sighs, 




Come to me from the ocean's dead ! — by the vows 




we pledged, arise !" 


ULLA; OR, THE ADJURATION. 






Again she gazed with an eager glance, 


" Yet speak to me ! I have outwatch'd the stars, 
And gazed o'er heaven in vain, in search of thee. 


Wandering and wildly bright ; — 


Speak to me ! I have wander'd o'er the earth, 


She saw but the sparkling waters dance 


And never found thy likeness. Speak to me ! 
This once — once more!" Manfred. 


To the arrowy northern-light. 


" Thou'rt gone ! — thou'rt slumbering low, 


" By the slow and struggling death 


With the sounding seas above thee : 


Of hope that loathed to part, 


It is but a restless woe, 


By the fierce and withering breath 


But a haunting dream to love thee ! 


Of despair on youth's high heart — 


Thrice the glad swan has sung 


By the weight of gloom which clings 


To greet the spring-time hours, 


To the mantle of the night, 


Since thine oar at parting flung 


By the heavy dawn which brings 


The white spray up in showers. 


Naught lovely to the sight — 


There's a shadow of the grave on thy hearth and 


By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung 


round thy home ; 


of grief and fear, 


Come to me from the ocean's dead ! — thou'rt 


Come to me from the ocean's dead! Awake, arise, 


surely of them — come ! " 


appear !" 


'Twas Ulla's voice ! Alone she stood 


Was it her yearning spirit's dream ] 


In the Iceland summer night, 


Or did a pale form rise, 


Far gazing o'er a glassy flood 


And o'er the hush'd wave glide and gleam, 


From a dark rock's beetling height. 


With bright, still, mournful eyes 1 


" I know thou hast thy bed 


" Have the depths heard 1 They have ! 


Where the sea- weed's coil hath bound thee ; 


My voice prevails : thou'rt there, 


The storm sweeps o'er thy head, 


Dim from thy watery grave — 


But the depths are hush'd around thee. 


thou that wert so fair ! 



422 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Yet take me to thy rest ! 

There dwells no fear with love ; 
Let me slumber on thy breast, 
While the billow rolls above ! 
Where the long-lost things lie hid, where the 

bright ones have their home, 
We will sleep among the ocean's dead. Stay for 
me, stay ! — I come ! " 

There was a sullen plunge below, 

A flashing on the main ; 
And the wave shut o'er that wild heart's woe — 

Shut, and grew still again. 



TO WORDSWORTH. 

Thine is a strain to read among the hills, 

The old and full of voices, — by the source [fills 

Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence 
The solitude with sound ; for in its course 

Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part 

Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart. 

Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken 

To the still breast in sunny garden bowers, 

Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken, 
And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. 

There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day 

Sinks with a golden and serene decay. 

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet, 
When night hath hush'd the woods with all their 
birds, 

There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet 
As antique music, link'd with household words ; 

While in pleased murmurs woman's lip might move, 

And the raised eye of childhood shine in love. 

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews 
Brood silently o'er some lone burial-ground, 

Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse 
A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around ; 

From its own glow of hope and courage high, 

And steadfast faith's victorious constancy. 

True bard and holy ! — thou art e'en as one 
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye, 

In every spot beneath the smiling sun, 

Sees where the springs of living waters lie : 

Unseen awhile they sleep — till, touch'd by thee, 

Bright healthful waves flow forth, to each glad 
wanderer free. 



[These verses, addressed " To the Author of the Excursion 
and the Lyrical Ballads," first appeared in the Literary Mag- 
net for April 1826 — a clever and tasteful periodical at that 
time conducted by Mr Alaric A. Watts — who appended to it 
the following complimentary editorial note : — 

" We have much pleasure in presenting to our readers this 
exquisite address to the poet Wordsworth, with which we have 
been kindly favoured by its distinguished author. Those who 
are acquainted with Mr W.'s writings, will readily feel and 
appreciate the truth and beauty of the tribute." 

The same little poem was afterwards inclosed by Mrs 
Hemans in one of her letters to her accomplished and deeply 
attached friend, Miss Jewsbury — at whose recommendation 
the writings of the great poet of the Lakes had become an 
earnest study with our author, and with what advantage, her 
compositions subsequent to this time sufficiently testify. In 
the letter referred to, Mrs Hemans seems proud to avow these 
obligations. 

" The inclosed lines," she says — " an effusion of deep and 
sincere admiration — will give you some idea of the enjoyment, 
and I hope I may say advantage, which you have been the 
means of imparting, by so kindly intrusting me with your 
precious copy of Wordsworth's Miscellaneous Poems. It has 
opened to me such a treasure of thought and feeling, that I 
shall always associate your name with some of my pleasantest 
recollections, as having introduced me to the knowledge of 
what I can only regret should have been so long a ' Yarrow 
un visited.' I would not write to you sooner, because I wished 
to tell you that I had really studied these poems, and they 
have been the daily food of my mind ever since I borrowed 
them. There is hardly any scene of a happy, though serious, 
domestic life, or any mood of a reflective mind, with the spirit 
of which some one or other of them does not beautifully har- 
monise. This author is the true poet of home, and of all the 
lofty feelings which have their root in the soil of home affec- 
tions. His fine sonnets to Liberty, and indeed all his pieces 
which have any reference to political interest, remind me of 
the spirit in which Schiller has conceived the character of 
William Tell— a calm, single-hearted herdsman of the hills, 
breaking forth into fiery and indignant eloquence when the 
sanctity of his hearth is invaded. Then what power Words- 
worth condenses into single lines, like Lord Byron's ' curd- 
ling a long life into one hour ! ' 

' The still, sad music of humanity'' — 

' The river glideth at his own sweet will' — 

' Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods' — 

and a thousand others, which we must some time (and I hope 
not a very distant one) talk over together. Many of these 
lines quite haunt me : and I have a strange feeling, as if I 
must have known them in my childhood ; they come over me 
so like old melodies. I can hardly speak of favourites among 
so many things that delight me ; but I think ' The Narrow 
Glen,' the ' Lines on Corra Linn,' the ' Song for the Feast of 
Brougham Castle,' ' Yarrow Visited,' and ' The Cuckoo,' are 
among those which take hold of imagination the soonest, and 
recur most frequently to memory. 



" I know not how I can have so long omitted to mention 
the Ecclesiastical Sketches, which I have read, and do con- 
stantly read, with deep interest. Their beauty grows upon 
you, and develops as you study it, like that of the old pictures 
by the Italian masters."] 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



421 



THE RELEASE OF TASSO. 

There came a bard to Rome ; he brought a 

lyre 
Of sounds to peal through Rome's triumphant 

sky, 
To mourn a hero on his funeral pyre, 
Or greet a conqueror with its war-notes high ; 
For on each chord had fallen the gift of fire, 
The living breath of Power and Victory, — 
Yet he, its lord, the sovereign city's guest, 
Sighed but to flee away and be at rest. 

He brought a spirit whose ethereal birth 

Was of the loftiest, and whose haunts had 

been 
Amidst the marvels and the pomps of earth, 
Wild fairy bowers, and groves of deathless 

green, 
And fields where mail-clad bosoms prove their 

worth, 
When flashing swords light up the stormy 

scene : 
He brought a weary heart, a wasted frame, — 
The Child of Visions from a dungeon came. 

On the blue waters, as in joy they sweep, 

With starlight floating o'er their swells and 

falls— 
On the blue waters of the Adrian deep 
His numbers had been sung ; and in the halls, 
Where, through rich foliage if a sunbeam peep, 
It seems Heaven's wakening to the sculptur'd 

walls, 
Had princes listened to those lofty strains, 
While the high soul they burst from pined in 



And in the summer gardens, where the spray 
Of founts, far glancing from their marble bed, 
Rains on the flowering myrtles in its play, 
And the sweet limes, and glassy leaves that 

spread 
Round the deep golden citrons, o'er his lay 
Dark eyes, dark soft Italian eyes, had shed 
Warm tears, fast glittering in that sun whose 

light 
Was a forbidden glory to his sight. 

Oh ! if it be that wizard sign, and spell, 
And talisman, had power of old to bind, 
In the dark chambers of some cavern-cell. 
Or knotted oak, the spirits of the wind, 



Things of the lightning-pinion, wont to dwell 
High o'er the reach of eagles, and to find 
Joy in the rush of storms, — even such a doom 
Was that high minstrel's in his dungeon-gloom. 

But he was free at last ! — the glorious land 
Of the white Alps and pine-crown'd Apennines, 
Along whose shore the sapphire seas expand, 
And the wastes teem with myrtle, and the 

shrines 
Of long- forgotten Gods from Nature's hand 
Receive bright offerings still — with all its vines, 
And rocks, and ruins, clear before him lay ; — 
The seal was taken from the founts of day. 

The winds came o'er his cheek — the soft winds, 

blending 
All summer-sounds and odours in their sigh ; 
The orange-groves waved round ; the hills were 

sending 
Their bright streams down; the free birds darting 

by, 

And the blue festal heavens above him bending, 
As if to fold a world where none could die. 
And who was he that looked upon these things ? 
— If but of earth, yet one whose thoughts were 
wings 

To bear him o'er creation ; and whose mind 
Was an air harp, awakening to the sway 
Of sunny Nature's breathings unconfined, 
With all the mystic harmonies that lay 
Far in the slumber of its chords enshrined, 
Till the light breeze went thrilling on its way. 
— There was no sound that wandered through 

the sky, 
But told him secrets in its melody. 

Was the deep forest lonely unto him, 

With all its whispering leaves 1 Each dell and 

glade 
Teemed with such forms as on the moss-clad 

brim 
Of fountains, in their sparry grottoes, played, 
Seen by the Greek of yore through twilight 

dim, 
Or misty noontide in the laurel shade. 
— There is no solitude on earth so deep 
As that where man decrees that man should 

weep ! 

But, oh ! the life in Nature's green domains, 
The breathing sense of joy ! where flowers are 
springing 



422 4 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



By starry thousands on the slopes and plains, 
And the grey rocks— and all the arched woods 

ringing, 
And the young branches trembling to the strains 
Of wild-born creatures, through the sunshine 

winging 
Their fearless flight,— and sylvan echoes round, 
Mingling all tones to one iEolian sound. 

And the glad voice, the laughing voice of streams, 

And the low cadence of the silvery sea, 

And reed-notes from the mountains, and the 

beams 
Of the warm sun— all these are for the free ! 
And they were his once more, the bard whose 

dreams 
Their spirit still had haunted. Could it be 
That he had borne the chain ? Oh ! who shall 

dare 
To say how much Man's heart uncrushed may 

bear 1 

So deep a root hath hope ! but woe for this 

Our frail mortality, that aught so bright, 

So almost burthened with excess of bliss, 

As the rich hour which back to summer's light 

Calls the worn captive, with the gentle kiss 

Of winds, and gush of waters, and the sight 

Of the green earth, must so be bought with 

years 
Of the heart's fever, parching up its tears, 

And feeding, a slow fire, on all its powers, 
Until the boon for which we gasp in vain, 
If hardly won at length, too late made ours, 
When the soul's wing is broken, comes like rain 
Withheld till evening, on the stately flowers 
Which withered in the noontide, ne'er again 
To lift their heads in glory. So doth Earth 
Breathe on her gifts, and melt away their worth. 

The sailor dies in sight of that green shore, 
Whose fields, in slumbering beauty, seemed to lie 
On the deep's foam, amidst its hollow roar 
Called up to sunlight by his fantasy. 
And when the shining desert-mists that wore 
The lake's bright semblance, have been all pass'd by, 
The pilgrim sinks beside the fountain wave, 
Which dashes from its rock, too late to save. 

Or if we live, if that too dearly bought, 
And made too precious by long hopes and fears, 
Remain our own — love, darkened and o'er wrought 
By memory of privation — love, which wears 



And casts o'er life a troubled hue of thought, 
Becomes the shadow of our closing years, 
Making it almost misery to possess 
Aught watched with such unquiet tenderness. 

Such unto him, the Bard, the worn and wild, 
And sick with hope deferred, from whom the sky 
With all its clouds in burning glory piled, 
Had been shut out by long captivity. 
Such freedom was to Tasso. As a child 
Is to the mother, whose foreboding eye 
In its too radiant glance from day to day, 
Reads that which calls the brightest first away. 

And he became a wanderer — in whose breast 

Wild fear which, e'en when every sense doth sleep, 

Clings to the burning heart, a wakeful guest, 

Sat brooding as a spirit, raised to keep 

Its gloomy vigil of intense unrest 

O'er treasures burthening life, and buried deep 

In cavern-tomb, and sought through shades and 

stealth, 
By some pale mortal, trembling at his wealth. 

But woe for those who trample o'er a mind ! 
A deathless thing ! They know not what they do, 
Nor what they deal with. Man perchance may 

bind 
The flower his step hath bruised ; or light anew 
The torch he quenches ; or to music wind 
Again the lyre-string from his touch that flew ; — 
But for the soul ! — oh ! tremble, and beware 
To lay rude hands upon God's mysteries there / 

For blindness wraps that world — our touch may 

turn 
Some balance fearfully and darkly hung ; 
Or put out some bright spark whose ray should 

burn 
To point the way a thousand rocks among ; 
Or break some subtle chain which none discern, 
Though binding down the terrible, the strong, 
Th o'ersweeping passions, which to loose on life 
Is to set free the elements for strife. 

Who then to power and glory shall restore 

That which our evil rashness hath undone 1 

Who unto mystic harmony once more 

Attune those viewless chords?— There is but One ! 

He that through dust the stream of life can pour, 

The Mighty and the Merciful alone. 

—Yet oft His paths have midnight for their 

shade — 
He leaves to Man the ruin Man hath made. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



423 



A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED. 

[The Emperor Albert of Hapsburg, who was assassinated 
by his nephew, afterwards called John the Parricide, was 
left to die by the wayside, and only supported in his last 
moments by a female peasant, who happened to be passing.] 

A monarch on his deathbed lay — 

Did censers waft perfume, 
And soft lamps pour their silvery ray, 

Through his proud chamber's gloom ] 
He lay upon a greensward bed, 

Beneath a darkening sky — 
A lone tree waving o'er his head, 

A swift stream rolling by. 

Had he then fallen as warriors fall, 

Where spear strikes fire with spear? 
Was there a banner for his pall, 

A buckler for his bier 1 
Not so — nor cloven shields nor helms 

Had strewn the bloody sod, 
Where he, the helpless lord of realms, 

Yielded his soul to God. 

Were there not friends with words of cheer, 

And princely vassals nigh 1 
And priests, the crucifix to rear 

Before the glazing eye 1 
A peasant girl that royal head 

Upon her bosom laid, 
And, shrinking not for woman's dread, 

The face of death survey'd. 

Alone she sat : from hill and wood 

Red sank the mournful sun ; 
Fast gush'd the fount of noble blood — 

Treason its worst had done. 
With her long hair she vainly press'd 

The wounds, to stanch their tide- 
Unknown, on that meek humble breast, 

Imperial Albert died ! 



TO THE MEMORY OF HEBER. 

" Umile in tanta gloria." — Petrarch. 

If it be sad to speak of treasures gone, 
Of sainted genius call'd too soon away, 

Of light from this world taken, while it shone 
Yet kindling onward to the perfect day — 

How shall our grief, if mournful these things be, 

Flow forth, thou of many gifts ! for thee 1 



Hath not thy voice been here amongst us heard ] 
And that deep soul of gentleness and power, 

Have we not felt its breath in every word 

Wont from thy lip as Hermon's dew to shower % 

Yes ! in our hearts thy fervent thoughts have 
burn'd — 

Of heaven they were, and thither have return'd. 

How shall we mourn thee 1 With a lofty trust, 
Our life's immortal birthright from above ! 

With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just, 
Through shades and mysteries lifts a glance of 
love, 

And yet can weep ! — for nature thus deplores 

The friend that leaves us, though for happier shores. 

And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier, 
One strain of solemn rapture, be allow'd ! 

Thou, that rejoicing on thy mid career, 
Not to decay, but unto death hast bow'd, 

In those bright regions of the rising sun, 

Where victory ne'er a crown like thine had won. 

Praise ! for yet one more name with power endow'd 
To cheer and guide us, onward as we press ; 

Yet one more image on the heart bestow'd 
To dwell there, beautiful in holiness ! 

Thine, Heber, thine ! whose memory from the dead 

Shines as the star which to the Saviour led ! 



THE ADOPTED CHILD. 

' ' Why wouldst thou leave me, gentle child 1 
Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild, 
A straw-roof'd cabin, with lowly wall — • 
Mine is a fair and a pillar'd hall, 
Where many an image of marble gleams, 
And the sunshine of picture for ever streams." 

" Oh ! green is the turf where my brothers play, 
Through the long bright hours of the summer day; 
They find the red cup-moss where they climb, 
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme, 
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they 

know — 
Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go !" 

" Content thee, boy ! in my bower to dwell — 
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well ; 
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon, 
Harps which the wandering breezes tune, 



IP 



424 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And the silvery wood-note of many a bird 
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard." 

" Oh ! my mother sings, at the twilight's fall, 
A song of the hills far more sweet than all ; 
She sings it under our own green tree 
To the babe half slumbering on her knee : 
I dreamt last night of that music low — 
Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go ! " 

" Thy mother is gone, from her cares to rest — 
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast ; 
Thou wouldstmeet her footstep, my boy ! no more, 
Nor hear the song at the cabin door. 
Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh, 
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye." 

" Is my mother gone from her home away ? 
But I know that my brothers are there at play — 
I know they are gathering the foxglove's bell, 
Or the long fern-leaves by the sparkling well ; 
Or they launch their boats where the bright streams 

flow — 
Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go ! " 

"Fair child ! thy brothers are wanderers now, 
They sport no more on the mountain's brow ; 
They have left the fern by the spring's green side, 
And the streams where the fairy barks were tried. 
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot, 
For thy cabin home is a lonely spot." 

" Are they gone, all gone from the sunny hill 1 — 
But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still ; 
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free, 
And the heath is bent by the singing bee, 
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow — 
Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go ! " 



INVOCATION. 

" I call'd an dreams and visions, to disclose 
That which is veil'd from waking thought; conjured 
Eternity, as men constrain a ghost 
To appear and answer." Wordsworth. 

Answer me, burning stars of night ! 

Where is the spirit gone, 
That past the reach of human sight 

As a swift breeze hath flown 1 
And the stars answer'd me — " We roll 

In light and power on high ; 
But, of the never-dying soul, 

Ask that which cannot die." 



mairy-toned and chainless wind ! 

Thou art a wanderer free ; 
Tell me if thou its place canst find, 

Far over mount and sea"? 
And the wind murmur'd in reply — 

" The blue deep I have cross'd, 
And met its barks and billows high, 

But not what thou hast lost." 

Ye clouds that gorgeously repose 

Around the setting sun, 
Answer ! have ye a home for those 

Whose earthly race is run 1 
The bright clouds answer'd — " We depart, 

We vanish from the sky ; 
Ask what is deathless in thy heart, 

For that which cannot die." 

Speak then, thou voice of God within, 

Thou of the deep low tone ! 
Answer me, through life's restless din — 

Where is the spirit flown"? 
And the voice answer'd — " Be thou still ! 

Enough to know is given : 
Clouds, winds, and stars their part fulfil — 

Thine is, to trust in Heaven." 



KORNER AND HIS SISTER. 

[" Charles Theodore Korner, the celebrated young German 
poet and soldier, was killed in a skirmish with a detachment 
of French troops on the 20th of August 1813, a few hours 
after the composition of his popular piece, The Sword-Song. 
He was buried at the village of Wobbelin in Mecklenburg, 
under a beautiful oak, in a recess of which he had frequently 
deposited verses composed by him while campaigning in its 
vicinity. The monument erected to his memory is of cast- 
iron ; and the upper part is wrought into a lyre and sword, a 
favourite emblem of Korner's, from which one of his works 
had been entitled. Near the grave of the poet is that of his 
only sister, who died of grief for his loss, having only survived 
him long enough to complete his portrait and a drawing of 
his burial-place. Over the gate of the cemetery is engraved 
one of his own lines : — 

' Vergiss die treuen Todten nicht.' 
(Forget not the faithful dead.) " 

— See Richardson's Translation of Korner's Life and 
Works, and Downe's Letters from Mecklenburg.] 

Green wave the oak for ever o'er thy rest, 
Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest, 

And, in the stillness of thy country's breast, 
Thy place of memory as an altar keepest ; 

Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills was pour'd, 
Thou of the Lyre and Sword ! 






MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



425 



Rest, bard ! rest, soldier ! By the father's hand 
Here shall the child of after years be led, 

With his wreath-offering silently to stand 

In the hush'd presence of the glorious dead — 

Soldier and bard ! for thou thy path hast trod 
With freedom and with God. 

The oak waved proudly o'er thy burial rite, 
On thy crown'd bier to slumber warriors bore 
thee, 
And with true hearts thy brethren of the fight 
Wept as they veil'd their drooping banners o'er 
thee; 
And the deep guns with rolling peal gave token 
That Lyre and Sword were broken. 

TJwu hast a hero's tomb : a lowlier bed 
Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying — ■ 

The gentle girl that bow'd her fair young head 
When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying. 

Brother, true friend ! the tender and the brave ! — 
She pined to share thy grave. 

Fame was thy gift from others; — but for her, 
To whom the wide world held that only spot, 

She loved thee ! — lovely in your lives ye were, 
And in your early deaths divided not. 

Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy, — what hath she 1 
Her own bless'd place by thee ! 

It was thy spirit, brother ! which had made 
The bright earth glorious to her youthful eye, 

Since first in childhood midst the vines ye play'd, 
And sent glad singing through the free blue sky. 

Ye were but two — and when that spirit pass'd, 
Woe to the one, the last ! 

Woe, yet not long ! She linger'd but to trace 
Thine image from the image in her breast — 

Once, once again to see that buried face 
But smile upon her, ere she went to rest. 

Too Sad a smile ! its living light was o'er — 
It answer'd hers no more. 

The earth grew silent when thy voice departed, 
The home too lonely whence thy step had fled; 

1 The following lines, addressed to the author of the 
above, by the venerable father of Korner, who, with the 
mother, survived the " Lyre, Sword, and Flower," here 
commemorated, may not be uninteresting to the German 
reader : — 

" Wohllaut tont aus der Feme von freundlichen Luften getragen, 
Schmeichelt mit lindemder Kraft sich in der Trauernden Ohr, 
Starkt den erhebenden Glauben an solcher seelen Verwandscbaft, 
Die zum Tempel die brust nur fur das Wurdige weihn. 



What then was left for her the faithful-hearted* 
Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead ! 
Softly she perish'd : be the Flower deplored 
Here with the Lyre and Sword ! 

Have ye not met ere now 1 — so let those trust 

That meet for moments but to part for years — 
That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from 
dust — 
That love, where love is but a fount of tears. 
Brothers ! weet sister ! peace around ye dwell : 
Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell ! x 



THE DEATH-DAY OF KORNER. 2 

A song for the death-day of the brave— 

A song of pride ! 
The youth went down to a hero's grave, 

With the sword, his bride. 3 

He went, with his noble heart unworn, 

And pure, and high — 
An eagle stooping from clouds of morn, 

Only to die. 

He met with the lyre, whose lofty tone 

Beneath his hand 
Had thrill'd to the name of his God alone 

And his fatherland. 

And with all his glorious feelings yet 

In their first glow, 
Like a southern stream that no frost hath met 

To chain its flow. 

A song for the death-day of the brave— 

A song of pride ! 
For him that went to a hero's grave, 

With the sword, his bride. 

He hath left a voice in his trumpet lays 

To turn the flight, 
And a guiding spirit for after days, 

Like a watch-fire's light. 

Aus dem Lande zu dfem sich stets der gefeyerte Jungling 
Hingezogen gefuhlt, wird ihm ein glazender Lohn. 
Heil dem Brittischen Volke, wenn ihm das Deutsche nicht fremd ist .' 
Uber Lander und Meer reichen sich beyde die Hand." 

Theodor Kokner's Vater. 

2 On reading part of a letter from Korner's father, ad- 
dressed to Mr Richardson, the translator of his. works, in 
which he speaks of " The Death-day of his son." 

3 See The Sword Song, composed on the morning of his death. 



426 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And a grief in his father's soul to rest, 

Midst all high thought ; 
And a memory unto his mothers breast, 

With healing fraught. 

And a name and fame above the blight 

Of earthly breath, 
Beautiful — beautiful and bright, 

In life and death ! 

A song for the death-day of the brave — 

A song of pride ! 
For him that went to a hero's grave, 

With the sword, his bride ! 

[As the great German writers at this time, and ever after- 
wards, exerted a great influence over the mind of MrsHemans, 
it may please the reader to know, on the authority of her 
sister, the degrees of estimation in which she held some of 
these. We quote from the Memoir, p. 54-8. 

" She in general preferred the writings of Schiller to those 
of Goethe, and could for ever find fresh beauties in Wallen- 
stein, with which she was equally familiar in its eloquent ori- 
ginal, and in Coleridge's magnificent translation, or, as it 
may truly be called, transfusion. Those most conversant 
with her literary tastes, will remember her almost actual 
relation-like love for the characters of Max and Thekla, whom, 
like many other * beings of the mind,' she had learned to con- 
sider as friends ; and her constant quotations of certain pas- 
sages from this noble tragedy, which peculiarly accorded with 
her own views and feelings. In the Stimmcn der Volker in 
Lieder of Herder, she found a rich store of thoughts and sug- 
gestions ; and it was this work which inspired her with the 
idea of her own ' Lays of Many Lands,' most of which 
appeared originally in the New Monthly Magazine, then edited 
by Mr Campbell. She also took great delight in the dreamy 
beauties of Novalis and Tieck, and in what has been gracefully 
characterised by Mr Chorley, as the ' moonlight tenderness ' 
of Oehlenschlager. Of the works of the latter, her especial 
favourite was Coreggio ; and of Tieck, Sternbald's Wande- 
rungen, which she often made her out-of-doors companion. 
It was always an especial mark of her love for a book, and of 
her considering it true to nature, and to the best wisdom of 
the heart, 1 when she promoted it to the list of those with 
which she would ' take sweet counsel ' amidst the woods and 
fields. 

" But, amongst all these names of power, none awakened 
a more lively interest in her mind, than that of the noble- 
hearted Korner, the young soldier-bard, who, in the words 
of Professor Bouterwek, ' would have become a distinguished 
tragic poet, had he not met with the still more glorious fate of 
falling on the field of battle, while fighting for the deliverance 
of Germany.' The stirring events of his life, the heroism of 
his early death, and the beautiful tie which subsisted between 
him and his only sister, whose fate was so touchingly bound 
up with his own, formed a romance of real life which could 
not fail to excite feelings of the warmest enthusiasm in a 
bosom so ready as hers to respond to all things high and 
holy. The lyric of ' The Grave of Korner,' is, perhaps, one 
of the most impressive Mrs Hemans ever wrote. Her whole 
heart was in a subject which so peculiarly combined the 

1 " One of our poets says, with equal truth and beauty, • The heart 
is ■wise." We should be not only happier but better if we attended 



two strains dearest to her nature, the chivalrous and "the 
tender. 

' They were but two — and when that spirit pass'd, 
Woe to the one, the last ! ' 

" That mournful echo — ' They were but two,' was, by some 
indefinable association, connected in her mind with another 
and far differing brother and sister, called into existence by 
the magic pen of Sir Walter Scott. The affecting ejacula- 
tion, ' There are but two of us ! ' so often repeated by the 
hapless Clara Mowbray in St Ronan's Well, was frequently 
quoted by Mrs Hemans as an instance of the deepest pathos. 
The lyric in question was, it is believed, one of the 
first tributes which appeared in England to the memory of 
the author of ' The Lyre and Sword,' though his name has 
since become ' familiar in our ears as household words.' 
A translation of the ' Life of Korner,' with selections from 
his poems, &c, was published in 1827, by G. F. Richardson, 
Esq., whose politeness in presenting a copy of the work to 
Mrs Hemans, inscribed with a dedicatory sonnet, led to an 
interchange of letters with that gentleman, and was further 
the means of procuring for her the high gratification of a 
direct message, full of the most feeling acknowledgment, from 
the venerable father of the hero, who afterwards addressed 
to her a poetical tribute from Theodor Earner's Father [see p. 
425.] Her pleasure in receiving this genuine offering was 
thus expressed to Mr Richardson, who had been the medium 
through which it reached her. ' Theodor Korner' s Vaterl 
— it is, indeed, a title beautifully expressing all the holy 
pride which the memory of die treuen Tbdten 2 must inspire ; 
and awakening every good and high feeling to its sound. I 
shall prize the lines as a relic. Will you be kind enough to 
assure M. Korner, with my grateful respects, of the value 
which will be attached to them, a value so greatly enhanced 
by their being in his own hand. They are very beautiful, I 
think, in their somewhat antique and treuherzig 3 simplicity, 
and worthy to have proceeded from Theodor Earner's 
Vater. 

" The following almost literal translation of these lines is 
given by W. B. Chorley, Esq., in his interesting little volume, 
' The Lyre and Sword,' published in 1834 : — 
' Gently a voice from afar is borne to the ear of the mourner; 
Mildly it soundeth, yet strong, grief in his bosom to soothe; 
Strong in the soul-cheering faith, that hearts have a share in his sorrow, 
In whose depths all things holy and noble are shrined. 
From that land once dearly beloved by our brave one, the fallen, 
Mourning blent with bright fame— cometh a wreath for his urn. 
Hail to thee, England the free ! thou see'st in the German no stranger. 
Over the earth and the seas, ioin'd be both lands, heart and hand !' 

" There was nothing which delighted Mrs Hemans more in 
German literature, than the cordial feeling of brotherhood, 
so conspicuous amongst its most eminent authors, and then" 
freedom from all the petty rivalries and manoeuvres on Avhich 
she herself looked down with as much of wonder as of contempt. 
In a, letter, in which she speaks of the bitterness, and jealousy, 
and strife, pervading the tone of many of our own Reviews, 
she adds, turning to a brighter picture with a feeling of relief, 
like tbat of one emerging from the heated atmosphere of a 
city to breathe the fresh air of the mountains : — ' How very 
different seems the spirit of literary men in Germany ! I am 
just reading a work of Tieck's, which is dedicated to Schlegel; 
and I am delighted with the beautiful simplicity of these words 
in the dedication : — Es tear eine schbne Zeit meines Lebcns, 
als ich dich und dcinen Bruder Friedrich zuerst kennen lernte',- 
eine noch schbnere als loir und Novalis fur Eunst und Wissen- 
schaft vereinigt lebtcn, und unsin mannigfaltigen Bestrebun- 



more to its dictates. "- 
2 The faithful 



-Ethel Churchill, by X. E. L. vol. i. p. 234. 
lead. 3 True-hearted. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



427 



gen begegneten. Jetzt hat uns das Schicksal schon seit vielen 
Jahren getrennt. Ich kauri nur in Geist und in der Erinne- 
rung mit dir leben. 1 Is not that union of bright minds, fiir 
Kunst und Wissenschaft, a picture on which it is delightful 
to repose ? ' "] 



s 



AN HOUR OF ROMANCE. 



" I come 
To this sweet place for quiet. Every tree 
And bush, and fragrant flower, and hilly path, 
And thymy mound that flings unto the winds 
Its morning incense, is my friend."— Barry Cornwall. 

There were thick leaves above me and around, 
And low sweet sighs like those of childhood's 
sleep, 
Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound 

As of soft showers on water ; dark and deep 
Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still 
They seem'd but pictured glooms ; a hidden rill 
Made music, such as haunts us in a dream, 
Under the fern-tufts ; and a tender gleam 
Of soft green light, as by the glow-worm shed, 
Came pouring through the woven beech-boughs 
down, 
And steep'd the magic page wherein I read 

Of royal chivalry and old renown, 
A tale of Palestine. 2 Meanwhile the bee 

Swept past me with a tone of summer hours — 
A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers, 
Blue skies, and amber sunshine : brightly free, 
On filmy wings, the purple dragon-fly 
Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by ; 
And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell 
Where sat the lone wood-pigeon. 

But ere long, 
All sense of these things faded, as the spell 
Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew 
strong 
On my chain'd soul. 'Twas not the leaves I heard : — 
A Syrian wind the lion-banner stirr'd, [brook 
Through its proud floating folds. 'Twas not the 
Singing in secret through its grassy glen ; — 
A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen 
Peal'd from the desert's lonely heart, and shook 
The burning air. Like clouds when winds are high, 
O'er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby, 
And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear 
Flash' d where a fountain's diamond wave lay clear, 
Shadow'd by graceful palm-trees. Then the shout 

1 " That was a bright era in my life when I first learned to 
know you and your brother Frederick; a still brighter, 
when we and Novalis lived united for art and knowledge, 
and emulated one another in various competitions. Fate 
has since, for many years, divided us. I can now live with 



Of merry England's joy swell'd freely out, 
Sent through an Eastern heaven, whose glorious hue 
Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of blue : 
And harps were there — I heard their sounding 



As the waste echo'd to the mirth of kings. 
The bright mask faded. Unto life's worn track, 
What call'd me from its flood of glory back ] 
A voice of happy childhood !— and they pass'd, 
Banner, and harp, and Paynim's trumpet's blast. 
Yet might I scarce bewail the splendours gone, 
My heart so leap'd to that sweet laughter's tone. 1 



A VOYAGER'S DREAM OF LAND. 

" His very heart athirst 
To gaze at nature in her green array, 
Upon the ship's tall side he stands possess'd 
With visions prompted by intense desire ; 
Fair fields appear below, such as he left 
Far distant, such as he would die to find : 
He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more." 



The hollow dash of waves ! — the ceaseless roar ! — 
Silence, ye billows ! — vex my soul no more. 
There's a spring in the woods by my sunny home, 
Afar from the dark sea's tossing foam ; 
Oh .' the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear, 
As a song from the shore to the sailor's ear ! 
And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws 
Through the feathery fern and the olive boughs, 
And the gleam on its path as it steals away 
Into deeper shades from the sultry day, 
And the large water-lilies that o'er its bed 
Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread, 
They haunt me ! I dream of that bright spring's 

flow, 
I thirst for its rills like a wounded roe ! 

Be still, thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry ! 
My spirit sickens as thy wing sweeps by. 

Know ye my home, with the lulling sound 

Of leaves from the lime and the chestnut round 1 

Know ye it, brethren ! where bower'd it lies 

Under the purple of southern skies ? 

With the streamy gold of the sun that shines 

In through the cloud of its clustering vines, 

And the summer breath of the myrtle flowers, 

Borne from the mountain in dewy hours, 

you only in spirit and in memory." 

2 The Talisman— Tales of the Crusaders. 

3 See Annotation on " Dramatic Scene between Bronwylfa 
and Rhyllon," p. 385. 



428 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And the fire-fly's glance through, the darkening 

shades, 
Like shooting stars in the forest glades, 
And the scent of the citron at eve's dim fall — 
Speak ! have ye known, have ye felt them all 1 

The heavy-rolling surge ! the rocking mast ! — 
Hush ! give my dream's deep music way, thou blast ! 

Oh, the glad sounds of the joyous earth ! 
The notes of the singing cicala's mirth, 
The murmurs that live in the mountain pines, 
The sighing of reeds as the day declines, 
The wings flitting home through the crimson glow 
That steeps the wood when the sun is low, 
The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill 
To the heart of the leaves when the winds are still — 
I hear them ! — around me they rise, they swell, 
They call back my spirit with Hope to dwell — 
They come with a breath from the fresh spring-time, 
And waken my youth in its hour of prime. 

The white foam dashes high — away, away ! 
Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray ! 

It is there ! — down the mountains I see the sweep 
Of the chestnut forests, the rich and deep, 
With the burden and glory of flowers that they bear 
Floating upborne on the blue summer air, 
And the light pouring through them in tender 

gleams, 
And the flashing forth of a thousand streams ! 
Hold me not, brethren ! I go, I go 
To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles blow, 
To the depths of the woods, where the shadows rest, 
Massy and still, on the greensward's breast, 
To the rocks that resound with the water's play — 
I hear the sweet laugh of my fount — give way ! 

Give way ! — the booming surge, the tempest's roar, 
The sea-bird's wail shall vex my soul no more. 



THE EFFIGIES. 

" Ber rasche Kampf verewigt einen Mann : 
Er falle gleich, so preiset ihn das Lied. 
Allein die Thranen, die unendlichen 
Der uberbliebnen, der verlass'nen Frau, 
Zahlt keine Nachwelt." Goethe. 

Warrior ! whose image on thy tomb, 
With shield and crested head, 

Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom 
By the stain'd window shed ; 



The records of thy name and race 

Have faded from the stone, 
Yet, through a cloud of years, I trace 

What thou hast been and done. 

A banner, from its flashing spear, 

Flung out o'er many a fight ; 
A war-cry ringing far and clear, 

And strong to turn the flight ; 
An arm that bravely bore the lance 

On for the holy shrine ; 
A haughty heart and a kingly glance — 

Chief ! were not these things thine ] 

A lofty place where leaders sate 

Around the council board ; 
In festive halls a chair of state 

When the blood-red wine was pour'd ; 
A name that drew a prouder tone 

From herald, harp, and bard : 
Surely these things were all thine own — 

So hadst thou thy reward. 

Woman ! whose sculptured form at rest 

By the arm'd knight is laid A 
With meek hands folded o'er a breast 

In matron robes array'd ; 
What was thy tale? — gentle mate 

Of him, the bold and free, 
Bound unto his victorious fate, 

What bard hath sung of thee ? 

He woo'd a bright and burning star — 

Thine was the void, the gloom, 
The straining eye that follow'd far 

His fast-receding plume ; 
The heart-sick listening while his steed 

Sent echoes on the breeze ; 
The pang— but when did Fame take heed 

Of griefs obscure as these 1 

Thy silent and secluded hours 

Through many a lonely day 
While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers, 

With spirits far away ; 
Thy weeping midnight prayers for him 

Who fought on Syrian plains, 
Thy watchings till the torch grew dim — 

These fill no minstrel strains. 

A still, sad life was thine ! — long years 
With tasks unguerdon'd fraught — 

Deep, quiet love, submissive tears, 
Vigils of anxious thought ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



429 



Prayer at the cross in fervour pour'd, 
Alms to the pilgrim given — 

Oh! happy, happier than thy lord, 
In that lone path to heaven ! 



THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS 
IN NEW ENGLAND. 

" Look now abroad ! Another race has fill'd 

Those populous borders— wide the wood recedes, 
And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till'd ; 
The land is full of harvests and green meads." Bryant. 

The breaking waves dash'd high 
On a stern and rock-bound coast, 

And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches toss'd ; 

And the heavy night hung dark 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moor'd their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came ; 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear ; — 
They shook the depths of the desert gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard and the sea ; 

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
To the anthem of the free ! 

The ocean eagle soar'd 

From his nest by the white wave's foam ; 
And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd — 

This was their welcome home ! 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amidst that pilgrim band ; — 
Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land 1 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 



What sought they thus afar 1 — 

Bright jewels of the mine 1 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ] — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trode. 
They have left unstain'd what there theyfound- 

Freedom to worship God. 



THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES. 

" And slight, withal, may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 

Aside for ever j — it may be a sound — 
A tone of music — summer's breath, or spring — 

A flower — a leaf— the ocean — which may wound- 
Striking th' electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound." 

Childe Harold. 

The power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken 
Vague yearnings, like the sailor's for the shore, 

And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken 
From some bright former state, our own no 
more; 

Is not this all a mystery 1 Who shall say [way 1 

Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their 

The sudden images of vanish'd things, 

That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why ; 

Tones from some broken harp's deserted strings, 
Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by ; 

A rippling wave — the dashing of an oar — 

A flower-scent floating past our parents' door ; 

A word — scarce noted in its hour perchance, 
Yet back returning with a plaintive tone ; 

A smile — a sunny or a mournful glance, [flown ; 
Full of sweet meanings now from this world 

Are not these mysteries when to life they start, 

And press vain tears in gushes from the heart ? 

And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams, 

Calling up shrouded faces from the dead, 
And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams, 
• Familiar objects brightly to o'erspread ; , 
And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear — [clear] 
These are night's mysteries — who shall make them 

And the strange inborn sense of coming ill, 
That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast, 

In a low tone which naught can drown or still, 
Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest ; 

Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall? 

Why shakes the spirit thus 1 'Tis mystery all ! 



430 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Darkly we move — we press upon the brink 


And the masters of the mighty song, 


Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not ; 


In their far and fadeless bowers ? 


Yes ! it may be, that nearer than we think 




Are those whom death has parted from our lot ! 


Those songs are high and holy, 


Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are made — 


But they vanquish not our fear : 


Let us walk humbly on, but undismay'd ! 


Not from our path those flowers are gone — 




We fain would linger here ! 


Humbly — for knowledge strives in vain to feel 




Her way amidst these marvels of the mind ; 


Linger then yet awhile, 


Yet undismay'd — for do they not reveal 


As the last leaves on the bough ! — 


Th' immortal being with our dust entwin'd 1 — - 


Ye have loved the light of many a smile 


So let us deem ! and e'en the tears they wake 


That is taken from you now. 


Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake. 






There have been sweet singing voices 


■ 


In your walks, that now are still ; 




There are seats left void in your earthly homes, 


THE DEPARTED. 


Which none again may fill. 


"Thou shalt lie down 




With patriarchs of the infant world— with kings, 


Soft eyes are seen no more, 


The powerful of the earth— the wise— the good, 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 


That made spring-time in your heart , 


All in one mighty sepulchre." Bryant. 


Kindred and friends are gone before — 




And ye still fear to part 1 


And shrink ye from the way 




To the spirit's distant shore 1 — 


We fear not now, we fear not ! 


Earth's mightiest men, in arm'd array, 


Though the way through darkness bends ; 


Are thither gone before. 


Our souls are strong to follow them, 




Our own familiar friends ! 


The warrior-kings, whose banner 




Flew far as eagles fly, 





They are gone where swords avail them not, 




From the feast of victory. 


THE PALM-TEEE. 1 


And the seers who sat of yore 


It waved not through an eastern sky, 


By Orient palm or wave, 


Beside a fount of Araby ; 


They have pass'd with all their starry lore — 


It was not fann'd by southern breeze 


Can ye still fear the grave ? 


In some green isle of Indian seas ; 




Nor did its graceful shadow sleep 


We fear ! we fear ! The sunshine 


O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep. 


Is joyous to behold, 




And we reck not of the buried kings, 


But fair the exiled palm-tree grew 


Nor the awful seers of old. 


Midst foliage of no kindred hue ; 




Through the laburnum's dropping gold 


Ye shrink ! The bards whose lays 


Rose the light shaft of orient mould, 


Have made your deep hearts burn, 


And Europe's violets, faintly sweet, 


They have left the sun, and the voice of praise, 


Purpled the moss-beds at its feet. 


For the land whence none return. 






Strange look'd it there ! The willow stream'd 


And the beautiful, whose record 


Where silvery waters near it gleam'd ; 


Is the verse that cannot die, 


The lime-bough lured the honey-bee 


They too are gone, with their glorious bloom, 


To murmur by the desert's tree, 


From the love of human eye. 


And showers of snowy roses made 




A lustre in its fan-like shade. 


Would ye not join that throng 


1 This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his 


Of the earth's departed flowers, 


poem of Les Jardins. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



431 



There came an eve of festal hours — 
Eich music fill'd that garden's bowers ; 
Lamps, that from flowering branches hung, 
On sparks of dew soft colour flung; 
And bright forms glanced — a fairy show — 
Under the blossoms to and fro. 

But one, a lone one, midst the throng, 
Seem'd reckless all of dance or song : 
He was a youth of dusky mien, 
Whereon the Indian sun had been, 
Of crested brow and long black hair — 
A stranger, like the palm-tree, there. 

And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes, 
Glittering athwart the leafy glooms. 
He pass'd the pale-green olives by, 
Nor won the chestnut flowers his eye ; 
But when to that sole palm he came, 
Then shot a rapture through his frame ! 

To him, to him its rustling spoke — 

The silence of his soul it broke ! 

It whisper'd of his own bright isle, 

That lit the ocean with a smile ; 

Ay, to his ear that native tone 

Had something of the sea-wave's moan 1 

His mothers cabin-home, that lay 
Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay ; 
The dashing of his brethren's oar — 
The conch-note heard along the shore ; 
All through his wakening bosom swept — 
He clasp'd his country's tree, and wept ! 

Oh ! scorn him not ! The strength whereby 
The patriot girds himself to die, 
Th' unconquerable power which fills 
The freeman battling on his hills, 
These have one fountain deep and clear — 
The same whence gush'd that childlike tear ! 



THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP. 

SUGGESTED BY A MONUMENT OF CHANTEEY's. 

Thou sleepest — but when wilt thou wake, fair 

child? 
When the fawn awakes in the forest wild ? 
When the lark's wing mounts with the breeze of 

morn 1 ? 
When the first rich breath of the rose is born 1 — 



Lovely thou sleepest ! yet something lies 
Too deep and still on thy soft-seal'd eyes ; 
Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see — 
When will the hour of thy rising be 1 

Not when the fawn wakes — 'not when the lark 
On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark. 
Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet 
The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet ; 
Love, with sad kisses unfelt, hath press'd 
Thy meek-dropt eyelids and quiet breast ; 
And the glad Spring, calling out bird and bee, 
Shall colour all blossoms, fair child ! but thee. 

Thou'rt gone from us, bright one ! — that thou 

shouldst die, 
And life be left to the butterfly I 1 
Thou'rt gone as a dewdropis swept from the bough : 
Oh ! for the world where thy home is now ! 
How may we love but in doubt and fear, 
How may we anchor our fond hearts here ; 
How should e'en joy but a trembler be, 
Beautiful dust ! when we look on thee % 



THE SUNBEAM. 

Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall — ■ 
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all ! 
A bearer of hope unto land and sea — 
Sunbeam ! what gift hath the world like thee ? 

Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles; 
Thou hast touch'd with glory his thousand isles; 
Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam, 
And gladden'd the sailor like words from home. 

To the solemn depths of the forest-shades, 
Thou art streaming on through their green arcades; 
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow 
Like fire-flies glance to the pools below. 

I look'd on the mountains — a vapour lay 
Folding their heights in its dark array : 
Thou brakest forth, and the mist became 
A crown and a mantle of living flame. 

I look'd on the peasant's lowly cot — 
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot ; 
But a gleam of thee on its lattice fell, 
And it laugh'd into beauty at that bright spell. 

1 A butterfly, as if resting on a flower, is sculptured on the 
monument. 



432 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



To the earth's wild places a guest thou art, 
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart ; 
And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed 
A tender smile on the ruin's head. 

Thou tak'st through the dim church-aisle thy way, 
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day, 
And its high, pale tombs, with their trophies old, 
Are bathed in a flood as of molten gold. 

And thou turn est not from the humblest grave, 
Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave ; 
Thou scatter' st its gloom like the dreams of rest, 
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. 

Sunbeam of summer ! oh, what is like thee 1 

Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea ! — 

One thing is like thee to mortals given, 

The faith touching all things with hues of heaven ! 



BREATHINGS OF SPRING. 



Thou givest me flowers, thou givest me songs ; bring back 
The love that I have lost I 



What wakest thou, Spring 1 ? Sweet voices in the 
woods, 
And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute : 
Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes, 

The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute, 
Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee, 
E'en as our hearts may be. 

And the leaves greet thee, Spring! — the joyous 
leaves, [glade, 

"Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and 
Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, 
When thy south wind hath pierced the whispery 
shade, 
And happy murmurs, running through the grass, 
Tell that thy footsteps pass. 

And the bright waters— they too hear thy call, 
Spring, the awakener! thou hast burst their 
sleep ! 
Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall 
Makes melody, and in the forests deep, 
Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray 
Their windings to the day. 

And flowers — the fairy-peopled world of flowers ! 
Thou from the dust hast set that glory free, 



Colouring the cowslip with the sunny hours, 

And penciling the wood anemone : 
Silent they seem — yet each to thoughtful eye 
Glows with mute poesy. 

But what awakest thou in the heart, Spring ! 

The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs? 
Thou that givest back so many a buried thing, 

Restorer of forgotten harmonies ! [art — 

Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou 
What wakest thou in the heart ? 

Too much, oh ! there too much ! We know not well 
Wherefore it should be thus, yet roused by thee, 
What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep 
cell, 
Gush for the faces we no more may see ! 
How are we haunted, in the wind's low tone, 
By voices that are gone ! 

Looks of familiar love, that never more, 
Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, 

Past words of welcome to our household door, 
And vanish'd smiles, and sounds of parted feet — 

Spring ! midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees, 
Why, why revivest thou these ? 

Vain longings for the dead ! — why come they back 
With thy young birds, and leaves, and living 
blooms 1 
Oh ! is it not, that from thine earthly track 

Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs? 
Yes, gentle Spring ! no sorrow dims thine air, 
Breathed by our loved ones there ! 



THE ILLUMINATED CITY. 

The hills all glow'd with a festive light, 

For the royal city rejoiced by night : 

There were lamps hung forth upon tower and tree, 

Banners were lifted and streaming free ; 

Every tall pillar was wreath'd with fire; 

Like a shooting meteor was every spire ; 

And the outline of many a dome on high 

Was traced, as in stars, on the clear dark sky. 

I pass'd through the streets. There were throngs 

on throngs — 
Like sounds of the deep were their mingled songs; 
There was music forth from each palace borne — ■ 
A peal of the cymbal, the harp, and horn ; 
The forests heard it, the mountains rang, 
The hamlets woke to its haughty clang ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



433 



Kick and victorious was every tone, 
Telling the land of her foes o'erthrown. 

Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slain ? 
Thousands lie dead on their battle-plain ! 
Gallant and true were the hearts that fell — 
Grief in the homes they have left must dwell : 
Grief o'er the aspect of childhood spread, 
And bowing the beauty of woman's head ! [moan 
Didst thou hear, midst the songs, not one tender 
For the many brave to their slumbers gone 1 

I saw not the face of a weeper there — 
Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamps' glare! 
I heard not a wail midst the joyous crowd — 
The music of victory was all too loud ! 
Mighty it roll'd on the winds afar, 
Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car — 
Through torches and streamers its flood swept by : 
How could I listen for moan or sigh ? 

Turn then away from life's pageants — turn, 

If its deep story thy heart would learn ! # 

Ever too bright is that outward show, 

Dazzling the eyes till they see not woe. [view 

But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy 

The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and 

true; 
Nor fear to survey what its folds conceal : — 
So must thy spirit be taught to feel ! 



THE SPELLS OF HOME. 

" There blend the ties that strengthen 
Our hearts in hours of grief, 
The silver links that lengthen 
Joy's visits when most brief." 

Bernard Barton. 

By the soft green light in the woody glade, 
On the banks of moss where thy childhood play'd, 
By the household tree through which thine eye 
First look'd in love to the summer sky, 
By the dewy gleam, by the very breath 
Of the primrose-tufts in the grass beneath, 
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell, 
Holy and precious — oh, guard it well ! 

By the sleepy ripple of the stream, 
Which hath lull'd thee into many a dream, 
By the shiver of the ivy leaves 
To the wind of morn at thy casement eaves, 
By the bee's deep murmur in the limes, 
By the music of the Sabbath chimes, 



By every sound of thy native shade, 
Stronger and dearer the spell is made. 

By the gathering round the winter hearth, 
When twilight call'd unto household mirth, 
By the fairy tale or the legend old 
In that ring of happy faces told, 
By the quiet hour when hearts unite 
In the parting prayer and the kind " Good-night ! ' 
By the smiling eye, and the loving tone, 
Over thy life has the spell been thrown. 

And bless that gift ! — it hath gentle might, 
A guardian power and a guiding light. 
It hath led the freeman forth to stand 
In the mountain-battles of his land ; 
It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas 
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze ; 
And back to the gates of his father's hall 
It hath led the weeping prodigal. 

Yes ! when thy heart, in its pride, would stray 
From the pure first-loves of its youth away — 
When the sullying breath of the world would come 
O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's 

home — 
Think thou again of the woody glade, 
And the sound by the rustling ivy made — 
Think of the tree at thy father's door, 
And the kindly spell shall have power once more ! 



ROMAN GIRL'S SONG. 

" Roma, Roma, Roma ! 
Non e piu come era prima." 

Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 
On thy seven hills of yore 

Thou sat'st a queen. 

Thou hadst thy triumphs then 

Purpling the street, 
Leaders and sceptred men 

BoVd at thy feet. 

They that thy mantle wore, 

As gods were seen — 
Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 

As thou hast been ! 

Rome ! thine imperial brow 
Never shall rise : 



434 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


What hast thou left thee now 1 — 


Look round thee ! O'er the slumbering deep 


Thou hast thy skies ■! 


A solemn glory broods ; 




A fire hath touch'd the beacon-steep, 


Blue;, deeply blue, they are, 


And all the golden woods ; 


Gloriously bright ! 


A thousand gorgeous clouds on high 


Veiling thy wastes afar 


Burn with the amber light ! — 


With colour'd light. 


What spell from that rich pageantry 




Chains down thy gazing sight ] 


Thou hast the sunset's glow, 




Rome ! for thy dower, 


A softening thought of human cares, 


Flushing tall cypress-bough, 


A feeling link'd to earth ! 


Temple and tower ! 


Is not yon speck a bark which bears 




The loved of many a hearth ] 


And all sweet sounds are thine, 


Oh ! do not Hope, and Grief, and Fear, 


Lovely to hear, 


Crowd her frail world even now, 


While night, o'er tomb and shrine, 


And manhood's prayer and woman's taer 


Rests darkly clear. 


Follow her venturous prow 1 


Many a solemn hymn, 


Bright are the floating clouds above, 


By starlight sung, 


The glittering seas below ; 


Sweeps through the arches dim, 


But we are bound by cords of love 


Thy wrecks among., 


To kindred weal and woe. 




Therefore, amidst this wide array 


Many a flute's low swell, 


Of glorious things and fair, 


On thy soft air 


My soul is on that bark's lone way — 


Lingers and loves to dwell 


For human hearts are there. 


With summer there. 




Thou hast the south's rich gift 




Of sudden song — 


THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 


A charm'd fountain, swift, 




Joyous and strong. 


Birds, joyous birds of the wandering wing ! 




Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring l 


Thou hast fair forms that move 


" We come from the shores of the green old Nile, 


With queenly tread ; 


From the land where the roses of Sharon smile, 


Thou hast proud fanes above 


From the palms that wave through the Indian sky> 


Thy mighty dead. 


From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby. 


Yet wears thy Tiber's shore 


" We have swept o'er cities in song renown' d — 


A mournful mien : — 


Silent they lie with the deserts round ! [roll'd 


Rome, Rome ! thou art no more 


We have cross'd proud rivers, whose tide hath 


As thou hast been ! 


All dark with the warrior-blood of old ; 




And each worn wing hath regain'd its home, 





Under peasant's roof-trees or monarch's dome." 


THE DISTANT SHIR 






And what have ye found in the monarch's dome, 


The sea-bird's wing o'er ocean's breast 


Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam 1 — 


Shoots like a glancing star, 


"We have found a change, we have found a pall, 


While the red radiance of the west 


And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall, 


Spreads kindling fast and far ; 


And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt — 


And yet that splendour wins thee not — - 


Naught looks the same, save the nest we built ! " 


Thy still and thoughtful eye 




Dwells but on one dark distant spot 


joyous birds ! it hath still been so ; 


Of all the main and sky. 


Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go .' 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 435 


But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep, 


And parted thus they rest, who play'd 


And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep : 


Beneath the same green tree ; 


Say what have ye found in the peasant's cot, 


Whose voices mingled as they pray'd 


Since last we parted from that sweet spot 1 — 


Around one parent knee ! 


" A change we have found there — and many a 


They that with smiles lit up the hall, 


change ! 


And cheer'd with song the hearth ! — 


Faces and footsteps, and all things strange ! 


Alas, for love ! if tlwu wert all, 


Gone are the heads of the silvery hair, 


And naught beyond, Earth ! 


And the young that were have a brow of care, 




And the place is hush'd where the children play' d — 




Naught looks the same, save the nest we made !" 




Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth, 


MOZART'S REQUIEM. 


Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth ! 




Yet through the wastes of the trackless air 


[A short time before the death of Mozart, a stranger of 
remarkable appearance, and dressed in deep mourning, called 


Ye have a guide, and shall we despair 1 


at his house, and requested him to prepare a requiem, in his 


Ye over desert and deep have pass'd — ■ 


best style, for the funeral of a distinguished person. The 


So may we reach our bright home at last ! 


sensitive imagination of the composer immediately seized 




upon the circumstance as an omen of his own fate ; and the 




nervous anxiety with which he laboured to fulfil the task, had 





the effect of realising his impression. He died within a few 




days after completing this magnificent piece of music, which 


THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 


was performed at his interment.] 






" These birds of Paradise but long to flee 




Back to their native mansion." 


They grew in beauty side by side, 


" Prophecy of Dante." 


They fill'd one home with glee ; — 




Their graves are sever'd far and wide, 


A requiem ! — and for whom ? 


By mount, and stream, and sea. 


For beauty in its bloom 1 




For valour fallen — a broken rose or sword 1 


The same fond mother bent at night 


A dirge for king or chief, 


O'er each fair sleeping brow : 


With pomp of stately grief, 


She had each folded flower in sight- 


Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored ] 


Where are those dreamers now 1 






Not so — it is not so ! 


One, midst the forest of the West, 


The warning voice I know, 


By a dark stream is laid — 


From other worlds a strange mysterious tone ; 


The Indian knows his place of rest, 


A solemn funeral air 


Far in the cedar-shade. 


It call'd me to prepare, 




And my heart answer'd secretly — my own ! 


The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one — 




He lies where pearls lie deep ; 


One more then, one more strain, 


He was the loved of all, yet none 


In links of joy and pain, 


O'er his low bed may weep. 


Mighty the troubled spirit to enthrall ! 




And let me breathe my dower 


One sleeps where southern vines are drest 


Of passion and of power 


Above the noble slain : 


Full into that deep lay — the last of all ! 


He wrapt his colours round his breast 




On a blood-red field of Spain. 


The last ! — and I must go 




From this bright world below, 


And one — o'er her the myrtle showers 


This realm of sunshine, ringing with sweet sound ! 


Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd ; 


Must leave its festal skies, 


She faded 'midst Italian flowers — 


With all their melodies, 


The last of that bright band. 


That ever in my breast glad echoes found ! 

1 



436 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Yet have I known it long : 

Too restless and too strong 
Within this clay hath been th' o'ermastering flame ; 

Swift thoughts, that came and went, 

Like torrents o'er me sent, 
Have shaken, as a reed, my thrilling frame. 

Like perfumes on the wind, 

Which none may stay or bind, 
The beautiful comes floating through my soul ; 

I strive with yearnings vain 

The spirit to detain 
Of the deep harmonies that past me roll ! 

Therefore disturbing dreams 

Trouble the secret streams 
And founts of music that o'erflow my breast ; 

Something far more divine 

Than may on earth be mine, 
Haunts my worn heart, and will not let me rest. 

Shall I then fear the tone 

That breathes from worlds unknown 1 — 
Surely these feverish aspirations there 

Shall grasp their full desire, 

And this unsettled fire 
Burn calmly, brightly, in immortal air. 

One more then, one more strain ; 

To earthly joy and pain 
A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell ! 

I pour each fervent thought, 

With fear, hope, trembling, fraught, 
Into the notes that o'er my dust shall swell. 

[One of the peculiar features of the increased sensitive- 
ness of her temperament at this time, was an awakened 
enthusiasm for music, which amounted to an absolute passion. 
" I do not think," she wrote, " that I can bear the burden 
of my life without music for more than two or three days." 
Yet, with sensibilities so exquisite as hers, this melomania 
was a source of far more pain than pleasure ; it was so im- 
possible for any earthly strains to approach that ideal and 
unattainable standard of perfection which existed within her 
mind, and which she has shadowed forth with a mournful 
energy in " Mozart's Requiem." 

From time to time, however, she had enjoyment of music 
of a very high character, for much of which she was indebted 
to her acquaintance with Mr Lodge, the distinguished 
amateur, by whom so many of her songs have been set to 
melodies of infinite beauty and feeling. At a somewhat 
later period she derived much delight from the talents of Mr 
James Zengheer Herrmann, from whom, for a time, she took 
lessons, for the express purpose of studying, and fully under- 
standing, the Stdbat Mater of Pergolesi, which had taken 
an extraordinary hold of her imagination. This fine compo- 
sition was first brought to her notice by Mr Lodge, to whom 
she thus expressed her appreciation of it : — " It is quite im- 
possible for me to tell you the impression I have received 



from that most spiritual music of Pergolesi's, which really 
haunted me the whole night. How much I have to thank 
you for introducing me, in such a manner, to so new and 
glorious a world of musical thought and feeling ! " — Memoir, 
p. 167-8.] 



THE IMAGE IN LAVA, 1 

Thou thing of years departed ! 

What ages have gone by 
Since here the mournful seal was set 

By love and agony 1 

Temple and tower have moulder' d, 
Empires from earth have pass'd, 

And woman's heart hath left a trace 
Those glories to outlast ! 

And childhood's fragile image, 

Thus fearfully enshrined, 
Survives the proud memorials rear'd 

By conquerors of mankind. 

Babe ! wert thou brightly slumbering 

Upon thy mother's breast 
When suddenly the fiery tomb 

Shut round each gentle guest 1 

A strange, dark fate o'ertook you, 
Fair babe and loving heart ! 

One moment of a thousand pangs — 
Yet better than to part ! 

Haply of that fond bosom 

On ashes here impress'd, 
Thou wert the only treasure, child ! 

Whereon a hope might rest. 

Perchance all vainly lavish'd 

Its other love had been, 
And where it trusted, naught remain'd 

But thorns on which to lean. 

Far better, then, to perish, 

Thy form within its clasp, 
Than live and lose thee, precious one ! 

From that impassion'd grasp. 

Oh ! I could pass all relics 

Left by the pomps of old, 
To gaze on this rude monument 

Cast in affection's mould. 

1 The impression of a woman's form, with an infant e! 
to the bosom, found at the uncovering of Herculaneum. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 437 


Love ! human love 1 what art thou ? 


And touch'd the page with tenderest light, 


Thy print upon the dust 


As if its shrine were there ! 


Outlives the cities of renown 


But oh ! that patriarch's aspect shone 


Wherein the mighty trust ! 


With something lovelier far — 




A radiance all the spirit's own, 


Immortal, oh ! immortal 


Caught not from sun or star. 


Thou art, whose earthly glow 




Hath given these ashes holiness — 


Some word of life e'en then had met 


It must, it must be so ! 


His calm, benignant eye ; 




Some ancient promise, breathing yet 





Of immortality ! 


CHRISTMAS CAROL. 


Some martyr's prayer, wherein the glow 




Of quenchless faith survives : 


lovely voices of the sky, 


While every feature said — " i" know 


That hymn'd the Saviour's birth ! 


That my Redeemer lives ! " 


Are ye not singing still on high, 




Ye that sang " Peace on earth 1" 


And silent stood his children by, 


To us yet speak the strains 


Hushing their very breath, 


Wherewith, in days gone by, 


Before the solemn sanctity 


Ye bless'd the Syrian swains, 


Of thoughts o'ersweeping death. 


voices of the sky ! 


Silent — yet did not each young breast 




With love and reverence melt 1 


clear and shining light ! whose beams 


Oh ! blest be those fair girls, and blest 


That hour heaven's glory shed 


That home where God is felt ! 


Around the palms, and o'er the streams, 




And on the shepherd's head ; 


[This little poem, which, as its Author herself expressed 


in a letter to Mrs Joanna Baillie, was to her "a thing set 


Be near, through life and death, 


apart," as being the last of her productions ever read to her 


As in that holiest night 


beloved mother, was written at the request of a young lady, 


Of Hope, and Joy, and Faith, 


who thus made known her wish " that Mrs Hemans would 


clear and shining light ! 


embody in poetry a picture that so warmed a daughter's 
heart :" — 




" Upon going into our dear father's sitting-room this 


star ! which led to Him whose love 


morning, my sister and I found him deeply engaged reading 


Brought down man's ransom free ; 


his Bible, and, being unwiUing to interrupt such a holy 


Where art thou 1 — Midst the hosts above 


occupation, we retired to the further end of the apartment, 


May we still gaze on thee 1 


to gaze unobserved upon the serene picture. The bright 
morning sun was beaming on his venerable silver hair, while 


In heaven thou art not set, 


his defective sight increased the earnestness with which he 


Thy rays earth might not dim — 


perused the blessed book. Our fancy led us to believe that 


Send them to guide us yet, 


some immortal thought was engaging his mind, for he 


star which led to Him ! 


raised his fine open brow to the light, and we felt we had 




never loved him more deeply. After an involuntary prayer 




had passed from our hearts, we whispered to each other, 




' Oh ! if Mrs Hemans could only see our father at this 


A FATHER READING THE BIBLE. 


moment, her glowing pen would detain the scene ; for even 
as we gaze upon it, the bright gleam is vanishing.' 


'Twas early day, and sunlight stream'd 


" December 9, 1826." 


Soft through a quiet room, 




That hush'd, but not forsaken seem'd, 




Still, but with naught of gloom. 


THE MEETING OF THE BROTHERS. 1 


For there, serene in happy age 




Whose hope is from above, 


" His early days 


A father communed with the page 


Were with him in his heart." Wordsworth. 


Of heaven's recorded love. 


The voices of two forest boys, 




In years when hearts entwine, 


Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright, 


1 For the tale on which this little poem is founded, see 


On his gray holy hair, 


L'Hermite en Italic 



438 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Had fill'd with childhood's merry noise 


Oh ! was it then a time to die 1 


A valley of the Rhine : 


It was ! — that not in vain 


To rock and stream that sound was known, 


The soul of childhood's purity 


Gladsome as hunter's bugle-tone. 


And peace might turn again. 




A ball swept forth — 'twas guided well- 


The sunny laughter of their eyes, 


Heart unto heart those brothers fell ! 


There had each vineyard seen ; 




Up every cliff whence eagles rise, 


Happy, yes, happy thus to go ! 


Their bounding step had been : 


Bearing from earth away 


Ay ! their bright youth a glory threw 


Affections, gifted ne'er to know 


O'er the wild place wherein they grew. 


A shadow — a decay — 




A passing touch of change or chill, 


But this, as day-spring's flush, was brief 


A breath of aught whose breath can kill. 


As early bloom or dew ; 




Alas ! 'tis but the wither'd leaf 


And they, between whose sever'd souls, 


That wears th' enduring hue ! 


Once in close union tied, 


Those rocks along the Ehine's fair shore 


A gulf is set, a current rolls 


Might girdle in their world no more. 


For ever to divide ; 




Well may they envy such a lot, 


For now on manhood's verge they stood, 


Whose hearts yearn on — but mingle not. 


And heard life's thrilling call, 




As if a silver clarion woo'd 




To some high festival ; 


THE LAST WISH. 


And parted as young brothers part, 


Go to the forest-shade, 


With love in each unsullied heart. 






Seek thou the well-known glade, 




Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie, 


They parted. Soon the paths divide 


Gleaming through moss-tufts deep, 


Wherein our steps were one, 


Like dark eyes fill'd with sleep, 


Like river branches, far and wide, 


And bathed in hues of summer's midnight sky. 


Dissevering as they run ; 




And making strangers in their course, 


Bring me their buds, to shed 


Of waves that had the same bright source. 


Around my dying bed 




A breath of May and of the wood's repose ; 


Met they no more 1 Once more they met, 


For I, in sooth, depart 


Those kindred hearts and true ! 


With a reluctant heart, 


'Twas on a field of death, where yet 


That fain would linger where the bright sun glows. 


The battle-thunders flew, 




Though the fierce day was wellnigh past, 


Fain would I stay with thee ! — ■ 


And the red sunset smiled its last. 


Alas ! this may not be ; 




Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours ! 


But as the combat closed, they found 


Go where the fountain's breast 


For tender thoughts a space, 


Catches, in glassy rest, [bowers. 


And e'en upon that bloody ground 


The dim green light that pours through laurel 


Room for one bright embrace, 




And pour'd forth on each other's neck 


I know how softly bright, 


Such tears as warriors need not check. 


Steep'd in that tender light, 




The water-lilies tremble there e'en now ; 


The mists o'er boyhood's memory spread 


Go to the pure stream's edge, 


All melted with those tears, 


And from its whispering sedge, 


The faces of the holy dead 


Bring me those flowers to cool my fever'd brow ! 


Rose as in vanish'd years ; 




The Rhine, the Rhine, the ever-blest, 


Then, as in Hope's young days, 


Lifted its voice in each full breast ! 


Track thou the antique maze 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



439 



Of the rich garden to its grassy mound ; 

There is a lone white rose, 

Shedding, in sudden snows, 
Its faint leaves o'er the emerald turf around. 

Well know'st thou that fair tree — 

A murmur of the bee 
Dwells ever in the honey'd lime above : 

Bring me one pearly flower 

Of all its clustering shower — 
For on that spot we first reveal'd our love. 

Gather one woodbine bough, 

Then, from the lattice low 
Of the bower'd cottage which I bade thee mark, 

When by the hamlet last 

Through dim wood-lanes we pass'd, 
While dews were glancing to the glowworm's spark. 

Haste ! to my pillow bear 
Those fragrant things and fair ; 

My hand no more may bind them up at eve — 
Yet shall their odour soft 
One bright dream round me waft 

Of life, youth, summer — all that I must leave ! 

And oh ! if thou wouldst ask 

Wherefore thy steps I task, 
The grove, the stream, the hamlet vale to trace — 

'Tis that some thought of me, 

When I am gone, may be 
The spirit bound to each familiar place. 

I bid mine image dwell 

(Oh ! break not thou the spell !) 
In the deep wood and by the fountain-side ; 

Thou must not, my beloved ! 

Eove where we two have roved, 
Forgetting her that in her spring-time died ! 



FAIRY FAVOURS. 

[This little poem was written in the winter of 1827. In 
writing to a friend shortly afterwards, Mrs Hemans herself 
thus alludes to it : " I am so glad you liked ' Fairy Favours.' 
It is, indeed, filled with my own true and ever-yearning feel- 
ing — that longing for more affection, more confidence, more 
entire interchange of thought, than I am ever likely to meet 
with. However, I will not repine whilst I have friends who 
love me as you do."] 

Give me but 

Something whereunto I may bind my heart ; 
Something to love, to rest upon, to clasp 
Affection's tendrils round. 

Wouldst thou wear the gift of immortal bloom 1 
Wouldst thou smile in scorn at the shadowy tomb? 



Drink of this cup ! it is richly fraught 
With balm from the gardens of Genii brought ; 
Drink ! and the spoiler shall pass thee by, 
When the young all scatter'd like rose-leaves lie. 

And would not the youth of my soul be gone, 
If the loved had left me, one by one 1 
Take back the cup that may never bless, 
The gift that would make me brotherless. 
How should I live, with no kindred eye 
To reflect mine immortality ! 

Wouldst thou have empire, by sign or spell, 
Over the mighty in air that dwell ? 
Wouldst thou call the spirits of shore and steep 
To fetch thee jewels from ocean's deep 1 
Wave but this rod, and a viewless band, 
Slaves to thy will, shall around thee stand. 

And would not fear, at my coming, then 
Hush every voice in the homes of men ] 
Would not bright eyes in my presence quail 1 
Young cheeks with a nameless thrill turn pale 1 
No gift be mine that aside would turn 
The human love for whose founts I yearn ! 

Wouldst thou then read through the hearts of 

those 
Upon whose faith thou hast sought repose ] 
Wear this rich gem ! it is charm'd to show 
When a change comes over affection's glow : 
Look on its flushing or fading hue, 
And learn if the trusted be false or true ! 

Keep, keep the gem, that I still may trust, 
Though my heart's wealth be but pour'd on dust ! 
Let not a doubt in my soul have place, 
To dim the light of a loved one's face ; 
Leave to the earth its warm sunny smile — ■ 
That glory would pass could I look on guile ! 

Say, then, what boon of my power shall be, 
Favour'd of spirits ! pour'd forth on thee 1 
Thou scomest the treasures of wave and mine, 
Thou wilt not drink of the cup divine, 
Thou art fain with a mortal's lot to rest — 
Answer me ! how may I grace it best ? 

Oh ! give me no sway o'er the powers unseen, 

But a human heart where my own may lean ! 

A friend, one tender and faithful friend, 

Whose thoughts' free current with mine may blend; 

And, leaving not either on earth alone, 

Bid the bright, calm close of our lives be one I 



440 



ANNOTATION ON EECORDS OF WOMAN, &c. 



ANNOTATION ON " RECORDS OF WOMAN," &C. 

[We feel certain that every admirer of the genius of Mrs 
Hemans will be obliged to us for here reprinting, almost 
at length, the admirable critique on her writings which 
appeared in the XCIXth Number of the Edinburgh Review. 
The acumen, the taste, and elegance of Lord Jeffrey, are 
evident throughout. 

" Women, we fear, cannot do every thing, nor even 
every thing they attempt. But what they can do, they 
do, for the most part, excellently — and much more fre- 
quently with an absolute and perfect success, than the as- 
pirants of our rougher and more ambitious sex. They can- 
not, we think, represent naturally the fierce and sullen 
passions of men — nor their coarser vices — nor even scenes 
of actual business or contention — and the mixed motives, 
and strong and faulty characters, by which affairs of mo- 
ment are usually conducted on the great theatre of the 
world. For much of this they are disqualified by the deli- 
cacy of their training and habits, and the still more dis- 
abling delicacy which pervades their conceptions and feel- 
ings ; and from much they are excluded by their actual 
inexperience of the realities they might wish to describe — 
by their substantial and incurable ignorance of business — 
of the way in which serious affairs are actually managed — 
and the true nature of the agents and impulses that give 
movement and direction to the stronger currents of ordi- 
nary life. Perhaps they are also incapable of long moral 
or political investigations, where many complex and in- 
determinate elements are to be taken into account, and a 
variety of opposite probabilities to be weighed before coming 
to a conclusion. They are generally too impatient to get at 
the ultimate results, to go well through with such discussions ; 
and either stop short at some imperfect view of the truth, or 
turn aside to repose in the shadow of some plausible error. 
This, however, we are persuaded, arises entirely from their 
being seldom set on such tedious tasks. Their proper and 
natural business is the practical regulations of private life, 
in all its bearings, affections, and concerns ; and the ques- 
tions with which they have to deal in that most important 
department, though often of the utmost difficulty and nicety, 
involve, for the most part, but few elements ; and may 
generally be better described as delicate than intricate — 
requiring for their solution rather a quick tact and fine per- 
ception, than a patient or laborious examination. For the 
same reason, they rarely succeed in long works, even on 
subjects the best suited to their genius ; their natural train- 
ing rendering them equally averse to long doubt and long 
labour. 

" For all other intellectual efforts, however, either of the 
understanding or the fancy, and requiring a thorough know- 
ledge either of man's strength or his weakness, we apprehend 
them to be, in all respects, as well qualified as their brethren 
of the stronger sex ; while, in their perceptions of grace, pro- 
priety, ridicule — their power of detecting artifice, hypocrisy, 
and affectation — the force and prompitude of their sympathy, 
and their capacity of noble and devoted attachment, and of 
the efforts and sacrifices it may require — they are, beyond all 
doubt, our superiors. 

" Their business being, as we have said, with actual or 
social life, and the colours it receives from the conduct and 
dispositions of individuals, they unconsciously acquire, at a 
very early age, the finest perception of character and man- 
ners, and are almost as soon instinctively schooled in the 
deep and dangerous learning of feeling and emotion ; while 
the very minuteness with which they make and meditate on 
these interesting observations, and the finer shades and vari- 



ations of sentiment which are thus treasured and recorded, 
trains their whole faculties to a nicety and precision of opera- 
tion, which often discloses itself to advantage in their appli- 
cation to studies of a very different character. When 
women, accordingly, have turned their minds — as they have 
done but too seldom — to the exposition or arrangement of 
any branch of knowledge, they have commonly exhibited, we 
think, a more beautiful accuracy, and a more uniform and 
complete justness of thinking, than their less discriminating 
brethren. There is a finish and completeness about every 
thing they put out of their hands, which indicates not only 
an inherent taste for elegance and neatness, but a habit of 
nice observation, and singular exactness of judgment. 

" It has been so little the fashion, at any time, to encourage 
women to write for publication, that it is more difficult than 
it should be to prove these truths by examples. Yet there 
are enough, within the reach of a very careless and superfi- 
cial glance over the open field of literature, to enable us to 
explain, at least, and illustrate, if not entirely to verify, our 
assertions. No man, we will venture to say, could have 
written the letters of Madame de Sevigne, or the novels of 
Miss Austin, or the hymns and early lessons of Mrs Bar- 
bauld, or the conversations of Mrs Marcet. These perform- 
ances, too, are not only essentially and intensely feminine, 
but they are, in our judgment, decidedly more perfect than 
any masculine productions with which they can be brought 
into comparison. They accomplish more completely all the 
ends at which they aim , and are worked out with a graceful- 
ness and felicity of execution which excludes all idea of 
failure, and entirely satisfies the expectations they may have 
raised. We might easily have added to these instances. 
There are many parts of Miss Edgeworth's earlier stories, 
and of Miss Mitford's sketches and descriptions, and not a 
little of Mrs Opie's, that exhibit the same fine and penetrat- 
ing spirit of observation, the same softness and delicacy of 
hand, and unerring truth of delineation, to which we have 
alluded as characterising the pure specimens of female art. 
The same distinguishing traits of a woman's spirit are visible 
through the grief and the piety of Lady Russell, and the 
gaiety, the spite, and the venturesomeness of Lady Mary 
Wortley. We have not as yet much female poetry; but 
there is a truly feminine tenderness, purity, and elegance, 
in the Psyche of Mrs Tighe, and in some of the smaller pieces 
of Lady Craven. On some of the works of Madame de Stael 
— her Corinne especially — there is a still deeper stamp of the 
genius of her sex. Her pictures of its boundless devotedness 
— its depth and capacity of suffering — its high aspirations — 
its painful irritability, and inextinguishable thirst for emo- 
tion, are powerful specimens of that morbid anatomy of the 
heart, which no hand but that of a woman's was fine enough 
to have laid open, or skilful enough to have recommended to 
our sympathy and love. There is the same exquisite and 
inimitable delicacy, if not the same power, in many of the 
happier passages of Madame de Souza and Madame Cottin — 
to say nothing of the more lively and yet melancholy records 
of Madame de Stael, during her long penance in the Court 
of the Duchesse de Maine. 

" But we are preluding too largely ; and must come at once 
to the point, to which the very heading of this article has 
already admonished the most careless of our readers that we 
are tending. We think the poetry of Mrs Hemans a fine 
exemplification of female poetry ; and we think it has much 
of the perfection which we have ventured to ascribe to the 
happier productions of female genius. 

" It may not be the best imaginable poetry, and may not 
indicate the very highest or most commanding genius, 



ANNOTATION ON RECORDS OF WOMAN, &c. 



441 



but it embraces a great deal of that which gives the very 
best poetry its chief power of pleasing ; and would strike 
us, perhaps, as more impassioned and exalted, if it were not 
regulated and harmonised by the most beautiful taste. It is 
infinitely sweet, elegant, and tender— touching, perhaps, and 
contemplative, rather than vehement and overpowering; 
and not only finished throughout with an exquisite delicacy, 
and even serenity of execution, but informed with a purity 
and loftiness of feeling, and a certain sober and humble tone 
of indulgence and piety, which must satisfy all judgments, 
and allay the apprehensions of those who are most afraid of 
the passionate exaggerations of poetry. The diction is always 
beautiful, harmonious, and free ; and the themes, though of 
infinite variety, uniformly treated with a grace, originality, 
and judgment, which mark the same master-hand. These 
themes she has borrowed, with the peculiar interest and 
imagery that belong to them, from the legends of different 
nations, and the most opposite states of society ; and has 
contrived to retain much of what is interesting and peculiar 
in each of them, without adopting, along with it, any of the 
revolting or extravagant excesses which may characterise the 
taste or manners of the people or the age from which it has 
been derived. She has thus transfused into her German or 
Scandinavian legends, the imaginative and daring tone of the 
originals, without the mystical exaggerations of the one, or 
the painful fierceness and coarseness of the other — she has 
preserved the clearness and elegance of the French, without 
their coldness or affectation — and the tenderness and simpli- 
city of the early Italians, without their diffuseness or languor. 
Though occasionally expatiating, somewhat fondly and at 
large, amongst the sweets of her own planting, there is, on 
the whole, a great condensation and brevity in most of her 
pieces, and, almost without exception, a most judicious and 
vigorous conclusion. The great merit, however, of her poetry, 
is undoubtedly in its tenderness and its beautiful imagery. 
The first requires no explanation ; but we must be allowed 
to add a word as to the peculiar charm and character of 
the latter. 

" It has always been our opinion, that the very essence of 
poetry, apart from the pathos, the wit, or the brilliant de- 
scription which may be embodied in it, but may exist equally 
in prose, consists in the fine perception and vivid expression 
of that subtle and mysterious analogy which exists between 
the physical and the moral world — which makes outward 
things and qualities the natural types and emblems of inward 
gifts and emotions, and leads us to ascribe life and sentiment 
to every thing that interests us in the aspects of external 
nature. The feeling of this analogy, obscure and inexpli- 
cable as the theory of it may be, is so deep and universal in 
our nature, that it has stamped itself on the ordinary lan- 
guage of men of every kindred and speech : and that to such 
an extent, that one-half of the epithets by which we fami- 
liarly designate moral and physical qualities, are in reality so 
many metaphors, borrowed reciprocally, upon this analogy, 
from those opposite forms of existence. The very familiarity, 
however, of the expression, in these instances, takes away its 
poetical effect — and indeed, in substance, its metaphorical 
character. The original sense of the word is entirely for- 
gotten in the derivative one to which it has succeeded ; and 
it requires some etymological recollection to convince us that 
it was originally nothing else than a typical or analogical 
illustration. Thus we talk of a penetrating understanding, 
and a furious blast — a weighty argument, and a gentle 
stream — without being at all aware that we are speaking in 
the language of poetry, and transferring qualities from one 
extremity of the sphere of being to another. In these cases, 



accordingly, the metaphor, by ceasing to be felt, in reality 
ceases to exist ; and the analogy, being no longer intimated, 
of course can produce no effect. But whenever it is inti- 
mated, it does produce an effect ; and that effect, we think, 
is poetry. 

" It has substantially two functions, and operates in two 
directions. In the first place, it strikes vividly out, and 
flashes at once on our minds, the conception of an inward 
feeling or emotion, which it might otherwise have been diffi- 
cult to convey, by the presentment of some bodily form or 
quality, which is instantly felt to be its true representative ; 
and enables us to fix and comprehend it with a force and 
clearness not otherwise attainable : and, in the second place, 
it vivifies dead and inanimate matter with the attributes of 
living and sentient mind ; and fills the whole visible universe 
around us with objects of interest and sympathy, by tinging 
them with the hues of life, and associating them with our 
own passions and affections. This magical operation the 
poet, too, performs, for the most part, in one of two ways — 
either by the direct agency of similes and metaphors, more or 
less condensed or developed, or by the mere graceful present- 
ment of such visible objects on the scene of his passionate 
dialogues or adventures, as partake of the character of the 
emotion he wishes to excite, and thus form an appropriate 
accompaniment or preparation for its direct indulgence or 
display. The former of those methods has perhaps been most 
frequently employed, and certainly has most attracted atten- 
tion. But the latter, though less obtrusive, and perhaps less 
frequently resorted to of set purpose, is, we are inclined to 
think, the most natural and efficacious of the two, and is 
often adopted, we believe unconsciously, by poets of the 
highest order — the predominant emotion of their minds over- 
flowing spontaneously on all the objects which present them- 
selves to their fancy, and calling out from them, and colour- 
ing with its own hues, those that are naturally emblematic of 
its character, and in accordance with its general expression. 
It would be easy to show how habitually this is done by 
Shakspeare and Milton especially, and how much many of 
their finest passages are indebted, both for force and richness 
of effect, to this general and diffusive harmony of the external 
character of their scenes with the passions of their living 
agents — this harmonising and appropriate glow with which 
they kindle the whole surrounding atmosphere, and bring all 
that strikes the sense into unison with all that touches the 
heart. 

" But it is more to our present purpose to say, that we 
think the fair writer before us is eminently a mistress of this 
poetical secret ; and, in truth, it was solely for the purpose 
of illustrating this great charm and excellence in her imagery, 
that we have ventured upon this little dissertation. Almost 
all her poems are rich with fine descriptions, and studded 
over with images of visible beauty. But these are never idle 
ornaments : all her pomps have a meaning ; and her flowers 
and her gems are arranged, as they are said to be among 
Eastern lovers, so as to speak the language of truth and of 
passion. This is peculiarly remarkable in some little pieces, 
which seem at first sight to be purely descriptive, but are 
soon found to tell upon the heart, with a deep moral and 
pathetic impression. But it is a truth nearly as conspicuous 
in the greater part of her productions, where we scarcely 
meet with any striking sentiment that is not ushered in by 
some such symphony of external nature, and scarcely a lovely 
picture that does not serve as a foreground to some deep or 
lofty emotion. We may illustrate this proposition, we 
think, by opening either of these little volumes at random, 
and taking what they first present to us. The following 



442 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



exquisite lines, for example, on a Palm-tree in an English 
garden : — 

* It waved not through an Eastern sky. 
Beside a fount of Araby,' etc. 

" The following, which the author has named, ' Graves of 
a Household,' has rather less of external scenery, but serves, 
like the others, to show how well the graphic and pathetic 
may be made to set off each other : — • 

' They grew in beauty, side by side, 
They fill'd one home with glee,' etc. 

" We have taken these pieces chiefly on account of their 
shortness ; but it would not be fair to Mrs Hemans not to 
present our readers with one longer specimen, and to give a 
portion of her graceful narrative along with her pathetic de- 
scriptions. This story, of ' The Lady of the Castle,' is told, 
we think, with great force and sweetness :— 

'Thou see'st her pictured with her shining hair, 
(Famed were these tresses in Provencal song,)' etc. 
" The following sketch of ' Joan of Arc in Rheims,' is in a 
loftier and more ambitious vein, but sustained with equal 
grace, and as touching in its solemn tenderness. We can 
afford to extract but a part of it : — 

' Within, the light, 

Through the rich gloom of pictured windows flowing,' etc. 

" There are several strains of a more passionate character, 
especially in the two poetical epistles from Lady Arabella 
Stuart and Properzia Rossi. We shall venture to give a few 
lines from the former. The Lady Arabella was of royal 
descent ; and having excited the fears of our pusillanimous 
James by a secret union with the Lord Seymour, was detained 
in a cruel captivity, by that heartless monarch, till the close 
of her life — during which she is supposed to have indited this 
letter to her lover from her prison-house : — 

' My friend, my friend ! where art thou ? Day by day, 
Gliding, like some dark mournful stream, away,' etc. 



" The following, though it has no very distinct object or 
moral, breathes, we think, the very spirit of poetry, in its 
bright and vague picturings, and is well entitled to the name 
it bears — ' An Hour of Romance : ' 

' There were thick leaves above me and around, 
And low sweet sighs, like those of childhood's sleep,' etc. 

' ' There is great sweetness in the following portion of a 
little poem on a ' Girl's School : ' — 

( Oh ! joyous creatures ! that will sink to rest 
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,' etc. 

" There is a fine and stately solemnity in these lines on 
' The Lost Pleiad : ' 

' Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night ? 
She wears her crown of old magnificence,' etc. 

" The following on ' The Dying Improvisatore,' have a 
rich lyrical cadence, and glow of deep feeling : — 
* Never, oh ! never more, 
On thy Rome's purple heaven mine eye shall dwell,' etc. 

" But we must stop here. There would be no end of our 
extracts, if we were to yield to the temptation of noting down 
every beautiful passage which arrests us in turning over the 
leaves of the volumes before us. We ought to recollect, too, 
that there are few to whom our pages are likely to come, who 
are not already familiar with their beauties ; and, in fact, we 
have made these extracts, less with the presumptuous belief 
that we are introducing Mrs Hemans for the first time to the 
knowledge or admiration of our readers, than from a desire of 
illustrating, by means of them, the singular felicity in the 
choice and employment of her imagery, of which we have 
already spoken so much at large ;— that fine accord she has 
established between the world of sense and of soul — that 
delicate blending of our deep inward emotions with their 
splendid symbols and emblems without."] 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



They tell but dreams — a lonely spirit's dreams ; 
Yet ever through their fleeting imagery 
Wanders a vein of melancholy love, 
An aimless thought of home ; as in the song 
Of the caged skylark ye may deem there dwells 
A passionate memory of blue skies and flowers, 
And living streams — far off ! 



A SPIEIT'S RETURN. 

" This is to be a mortal, 
And seek the things beyond mortality ! " Manfred. 

Thy voice prevails — dear friend, my gentle friend! 
This long-shut heart for thee shall be unseal'd ; 
And though thy soft eye mournfully will bend 
Over the troubled stream, yet once reveal'd 



Shall its freed waters flow ; then rocks must close 
For evermore, above their dark repose. 

Come while the gorgeous mysteries of the sky 
Fused in the crimson sea of sunset lie ; [sound 
Come to the woods, where all strange wandering 
Is mingled into harmony profound ; 
Where the leaves thrill with spirit, while the wind 
Fills with a viewless being, unconfined, 



A SPIRIT'S RETURN. 



443 



The trembling reeds and fountains. Our own 

dell, 
With its green dimness and iEolian breath, 
Shall suit th' unveiling of dark records well — 
Hear me in tenderness and silent faith ! 

Thou knew'st me not in life's fresh vernal morn — 
I would thou hadst ! — for then my heart on thine 
Had pour'd a worthier love ; now, all o'erworn 
By its deep thirst for something too divine, 
It hath but fitful music to bestow, 
Echoes of harp-strings broken long ago. 

Yet even in youth companionless I stood, 
As a lone forest-bird midst ocean's foam ; 
For me the silver cords of brotherhood 
Were early loosed ; the voices from my home 
Pass'd one by one, and melody and mirth 
Left me a dreamer by a silent hearth. 

But, with the fulness of a heart that burn'd 
For the deep sympathies of mind, I turn'd 
From that unanswering spot, and fondly sought 
In all wild scenes with thrilling murmurs fraught, 
In every still small voice and sound of power, 
And flute-note of the wind through cave and bower, 
A perilous delight ! — for then first woke 
My life's lone passion, the mysterious quest 
Of secret knowledge ; and each tone that broke 
From the wood-arches or the fountain's breast, 
Making my quick soul vibrate as a lyre, 
But minister'd to that strange inborn fire. 

Midst the bright silence of the mountain dells, 
In noontide-hours or golden summer-eves, 
My thoughts have burst forth as a gale that swells 
Into a rushing blast, and from the leaves 
Shakes out response. thou rich world unseen! 
Thou curtain'd realm of spirits ! — thus my cry 
Hath troubled air and silence — dost thou lie 
Spread all around, yet by some filmy screen 
Shut from us ever ? The resounding woods, 
Do their depths teem with marvels'? — and the 

floods, 
And the pure fountains, leading secret veins 
Of quenchless melody through rock and hill, 
Have they bright dwellers 1 — are their lone domains 
Peopled with beauty, which may never still 
Our weary thirst of soul 1 Cold, weak and cold, 
Is earth's vain language, piercing not one fold 
Of our deep being ! Oh, for gifts more high ! 
For a seer's glance to rend mortality ! 
For a charm'd rod, to call from each dark shrine 
The oracles divine ! 



I woke from those high fantasies, to know 
My kindred with the earth — I woke to love. 

gentle friend ! to love in doubt and woe, 
Shutting the heart the worshipp'd name above, 
Is to love deeply ; and my spirit's dower 

Was a sad gift, a melancholy power 
Of so adoring — with a buried care, 
And with the o'erflowing of a voiceless prayer, 
And with a deepening dream, that day by day, 
In the still shadow of its lonely sway, 
Folded me closer, till the world held naught 
Save the one being to my centred thought. 
There was no music but his voice to hear, 
No joy but such as with his step drew near; 
Light was but where he look'd — life where he 

moved : 
Silently, fervently, thus, thus I loved. 
Oh ! but such love is fearful ! — and I knew 
Its gathering doom : the soul's prophetic sight 
Even then unfolded in my breast, and threw 
O'er all things round a full, strong, vivid light, 
Too sorrowfully clear ! — an under-tone 
Was given to Nature's harp, for me alone 
Whispering of grief. Of grief? — be strong, awake ! 
Hath not thy love been victory, my soul ? 
Hath not its conflict won a voice to shake 
Death's fastnesses 1 — a magic to control 
Worlds far removed 1 — from o'er the grave to thee 
Love hath made answer ; and thy tale should be 
Sung like a lay of triumph ! Now return 
And take thy treasure from its bosom'd urn, 
And lift it once to light ! 

In fear, in pain, 

1 said I loved — but yet a heavenly strain 

Of sweetness floated down the tearful stream, 
A joy flash'd through the trouble of my dream ! 
I knew myself beloved ! We breathed no vow, 
No mingling visions might our fate allow, 
As unto happy hearts ; but still and deep, 
Like a rich jewel gleaming in a grave, 
Like golden sand in some dark river's wave, 
So did my soul that costly knowledge keep, 
So jealously !- — a thing o'er which to shed, 
When stars alone beheld the drooping head, 
Lone tears ! yet ofttimes burden'd with the excess 
Of our strange nature's quivering happiness. 

But, oh ! sweet friend ! we dream not of love's 

might 
Till death has robed with soft and solemn light 
The image we enshrine ! Before that hour, 
We have but glimpses of the o'ermastering power 
Within us laid ! — then doth the spirit-flame 



444 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



With sword-like lightning rend its mortal frame ; 
The wings of that which pants to follow fast 
Shake their clay-bars, as with a prison' d blast — 
The sea is in our souls ! 

He died — he died 
On whom my lone devotedness was cast ! 
I might not keep one vigil by his side, 
I, whose wrung heart watch'd with him to the last ! 
I might not once his fainting head sustain, 
Nor bathe his parch'd lips in the hour of pain, 
Nor say to him, " Farewell ! " He pass'd away — 
Oh ! had my love been there, its conquering sway 
Had won him back from death ! But thus removed, 
Borne o'er th' abyss no sounding line hath proved, 
Join'd with the unknown, the viewless — he became 
Unto my thoughts another, yet the same — 
Changed — hallow'd — glorified ! — and his low grave 
Seem'd a bright mournful altar — mine, all mine : 
Brother and friend soon left me that sole shrine, 
The birthright of the faithful! — their world's wave 
Soon swept them from its brink. Oh ! deem thou 

not 
That on the sad and consecrated spot 
My soul grew weak ! I tell thee that a power 
There kindled heart and lip — a fiery shower 
My words were made — amight was given to prayer, 
And a strong grasp to passionate despair, 
And a dread triumph ! Know'st thou what I sought 1 
For what high boon my struggling spirit wrought 1 
— Communion with the dead ! I sent a cry 
Through the veil'd empires of eternity — 
A voice to cleave them ! By the mournful truth, 
By the lost promise of my blighted youth 
By the strong chain a mighty love can bind 
On the beloved, the spell of mind o'er mind ; 
By words, which in themselves are magic high, 
Armed, and inspired, and wing'd with agony ; 
By tears, which comfort not, but burn, and seem 
To bear the heart's blood in their passion-stream ; 
I summon'd, I adjured ! — with quicken'd sense, 
With the keen vigil of a life intense. 
I watch'd, an answer from the winds to wring, 
I listen'd, if perchance the stream might bring 
Token from worlds afar ; I taught one sound 
Unto a thousand echoes — one profound 
Imploring accent to the tomb, the sky — 
One prayer to night — " Awake ! appear ! reply ! " 
Hast thou been told that from the viewless bourne 
The dark way never hath ailow'd return 1 
That all, which tears can move, with life is fled — 
That earthly love is powerless on the dead ] 
Believe it not ! — There is a large lone star 
Now burning o'er yon western hill afai*, 



And under its clear light there lies a spot 
Which well might utter forth — Believe it not ! 

I sat beneath that planet. I had wept 
My woe to stillness ; every night- wind slept ; 
A hush was on the hills ; the very streams 
Went by like clouds, or noiseless founts in dreams ; 
And the dark tree o'ershadowing me that hour, 
Stood motionless, even as the gray church-tower 
Whereon I gazed unconsciously. There came 
A low sound, like the tremor of a flame, 
Or like the light quick shiver of a wing, 
Flitting through twilight woods, across the air ; 
And I look'd up ! Oh ! for strong words to bring 
Conviction o'er thy thought ! Before me there, 
He, the departed, stood ! Ay, face to face, 
So near, and yet how far ! His form, his mien, 
Gave to remembrance back each burning trace 
Within : — Yet something awfully serene, 
Pure, sculpture-like, on the pale brow, that wore 
Of the once beating heart no token more ; 
And stillness on the lip— and o'er the hair 
A gleam, that trembled through the breathless air; 
And an unfathom'd calm, that seem'd to He 
In the grave sweetness of th' illumined eye, 
Told of the gulfs between our being set, 
And, as that unsheath'd spirit-glance I met, 
Made my soul faint: — with fear? Oh! not with 

fear ! 
With the sick feeling that in his far sphere 
My love could be as nothing ! But he spoke — 
How shall I tell thee of the startling thrill 
In that low voice, whose breezy tones could fill 
My bosom's infinite 1 friend ! I woke 
Then first to heavenly life ! Soft, solemn, clear, 
Breathed the mysterious accents on mine ear, 
Yet strangely seem'd as if the while they rose 
From depths of distance, o'er the wide repose 
Of slumbering waters wafted, or the dells 
Of mountains, hollow with sweet echo-cells. 
But, as they murmur'd on, the mortal chill 
Pass'd from me, like a mist before the morn ; 
And, to that glorious intercourse upborne 
By slow degrees, a calm, divinely still, 
Possess'd my frame. I sought that lighted eye — 
From its intense and searching purity 
I drank in soul ! — I question'd of the dead — 
Of the hush'd, starry shores their footsteps tread, 
And I was answer'd. If remembrance there 
With dreamy whispers fill the immortal air ; 
If thought, here piled from many a jewel-heap, 
Be treasure in that pensive land to keep ; 
If love, o'ersweeping change, and blight, and blast, 
Find there the nmsic of his home at last : 



J 



A SPIRIT'S RETURN. 



445 



I ask'd, and I was answer'd. Full and high 
Was that communion with eternity — 
Too rich for aught so fleeting ! Like a knell 
Swept o'er my sense its closing words, "Farewell ! 
On earth we meet no more ! " And all was gone — 
The pale, bright settled brow — the thrilling tone, 
The still and shining eye ! and never more 
May twilight gloom or midnight hush restore 
That radiant guest ! One full-fraught hour of heaven, 
To earthly passion's wild implorings given, 
"Was made my own — the ethereal fire hath shiver'd 
The fragile censer in whose mould it quiver' d, 
Brightly, consumingly ! What now is left 1 
A faded world, of glory's hues bereft — 
A void, a chain ! I dwell midst throngs, apart, 
In the cold silence of the stranger's heart ; 
A fix'd immortal shadow stands between 
My spirit and life's fast-receding scene ; 
A gift hath sever'd me from human ties, 
A power is gone from all earth's melodies, 
Which never may return : their chords are broken, 
The music of another land hath spoken — 
No after-sound is sweet ! This weary thirst ! 
And I have heard celestial fountains burst ! 
What here shall quench it ? 

Dost thou not rejoice, 
When the spring sends forth an awakening voice 
Through the young woods 1 Thou dost ! And in 

that birth 
Of early leaves, and flowers, and songs of mirth, 
Thousands, like thee, find gladness ! Couldst thou 

know 
How every breeze then summons me to go ! 
How all the light of love and beauty shed 
By those rich hours, but woos me to the dead ! 
The only beautiful that change no more — 
The only loved ! — the dwellers on the shore 
Of spring fulfill'd ! The dead ! whom call we so] 
They that breathe purer air, that feel, that know 
Things wrapt from us ! Away ! within me pent, 
That which is barr'd from its own element 
Still droops or struggles ! But the day will come — 
Over the deep the free bird finds its home ; 
And the stream lingers midst the rocks, yet greets 
The sea at last ; and the wing'd flower-seed meets 
A soil to rest in : shall not i", too, be, 
My spirit-love ! upborne to dwell with thee 1 
Yes! by the power whose conquering anguish stirr'd 
The tomb, whose cry beyond the stars was heard, 
Whose agony of triumph won thee back 
Through the dim pass no mortal step may track, 
Yet shall we meet ! that glimpse of joy divine 
Proved thee for ever and for ever mine ! 



["It was towards the close of the year 1829, that Mrs 
Hemans began to contemplate the publication of a new 
volume of poems. She had already made some preparation 
for this by contributing a series of lyrics under the title of 
" Songs of the Affections," to Blackwood's Magazine, together 
with the long ballad, " The Lady of Provence," which, for 
the glowing pictures it contains, the lofty yet tender affection 
to which it is consecrated, and the striking but never uncouth 
changes of its versification, must be considered as one of its 
author's finest chivalresque poems. She had still, however, to 
produce some work of greater importance than these, suitable 
for the commencement of a volume. The subject at length 
fixed upon by her, as peculiar as it was almost dangerously 
fascinating, was suggested by a fireside conversation. It had 
long been a favourite amusement to wind up our evenings by 
telling ghost-stories. One night, however, the store of thrill- 
ing narratives was exhausted, and we began to talk of the 
feelings with which the presence and the speech of a visitant 
from another world, (if indeed a spirit could return,) would 
be most likely to impress the person so visited. After having 
exhausted all the common varieties of fear and terror in our 
speculations, Mrs Hemans said that she thought the pre- 
dominant sensation at the time must partake of awe and 
rapture, and resemble the feelings of those who listen to a 
revelation, and at the same moment know themselves to be 
favoured above all men, and humbled before a being no longer 
sharing their own cares or passions ; but that the person so 
visited must thenceforward and for ever be inevitably sepa- 
rated from this world and its concerns : for the soul which had 
once enjoyed such a strange and spiritual communion, which 
had been permitted to look, though but for a moment, beyond 
the mysterious gates of death, must be raised, by its experience, 
too high for common grief again to perplex, or common joy 
to enliven. She spoke long and eloquently upon this subject ; 
and I have reason to believe that this conversation settled her 
wandering fancy, and gave rise to the principal poem in her next 
volume." — Chorley's Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 69-72. 

Mr Chorley, in an after part of the same work, makes the 
following ingenious and suggestive remarks in reference to 
the same exquisite poem : — " The coming of the apparition 
is described with all the plainness and intensity of the most 
entire conviction, so difficult in these days for a writer to 
assume — might it not almost be said, so impossible to 
be assumed by those who have wholly and scornfully cast 
off those superstitions, so distasteful to reason, but so dear 
to fancy ? It is impossible, in reading Sir Walter Scott's 
incomparable descriptions of supernatural visitations, — 
the episode of the ' Bodach Glas ' for instance, or ' Wan- 
dering Willie's tale,' or the vigil of Master Holdenough in 
the Mirror Chamber, (though this is afterwards explained 
away,) — to imagine that the creator of these scenes did not in 
some measure believe in their possibility, though it might be 
but with a poetical faith. Were it otherwise, they must strike 
us as unnaturally as the recent French revivifications of the 
antique Catholic legends and mysteries — as merely grotesque 
old fables, adopted as studies by clever artists, for the sake of 
their glaring contrasts and effective situations." — Memorials, 
p. 103. 

In conclusion, we add the comparative estimate formed of 
this production by its author. It is from one of her letters 
to a friend. " Your opinion of the ' Spirit's Return ' has 
given me particular pleasure, because I prefer that poem to 
any thing else I have written ; but if there be, as my friends 
say, a greater power in it than I had before evinced, I paid 
dearly for the discovery, and it almost made me tremble as I 
sounded ' the deep places ' of my soul."] 



446 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



THE LADY OF PROVENCE. 1 

" Courage was cast about her like a dress 
Of solemn comeliness, 
A gather'd mind and an untroubled face 
Did give her dangers grace." Donne. 

The war-note of the Saracen 

Was on the winds of France ; 

It had still'd the harp of the Troubadour, 
And the clash of the tourney's lance. 
The sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the night, 
And the hollow echoes of charge and flight, 
Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray 
In a chapel where the mighty lay, 

On the old Provencal shore. 
Many a Chatillon beneath, 
Unstirr'd by the ringing trumpet's breath, 

His shroud of armour wore ; 
And the glimpses of moonlight that went and came 
Through the clouds, like bursts of a dying flame, 
Gave quivering life to the slumber pale 
Of stern forms couch'd in their marble mail, 
At rest on the tombs of the knightly race, 
The silent throngs of that burial-place. 

They were imaged there with helm and spear, 
As leaders in many a bold career, 
And haughty their stillness look'd and high, 
Like a sleep whose dreams were of victory. 
But meekly the voice of the lady rose 
Through the trophies of their proud repose ; 
Meekly, yet fervently, calling down aid, 
Under their banners of battle she pray'd ; 
With her pale, fair brow, and her eyes of love, 
Upraised to the Virgin's portray'd above, 
And her hair flung back, till it swept the grave 
Of a Chatillon with its gleamy wave ; 
And her fragile frame, at every blast, 
That full of the savage war -horn pass'd, 
Trembling, as trembles a bird's quick heart, 
When it vainly strives from its cage to part — 

So knelt she in her woe ; 
A weeper alone with the tearless dead — 
Oh ! they reck not of tears o'er their quiet shed, 

Or the dust had stirr'd below ! 

Hark ! a swift step ! she hath caught its tone, 
Through the dash of the sea, through the wild 

wind's moan : 
Is her lord return'd with his conquering -bauds 1 
No ! a breathless vassal before her stands ! 
— " Hast thou been on the field ? — Art thou come 

from the host?" 
— " From the slaughter, lady ! — All, all is lost ! 
1 Founded on an incident in the early French history. 



Our banners are taken, our knights laid low, 
Our spearmen chased by the Paynim foe ; 
And thy lord," his voice took a sadder sound — 
" Thy lord — he is not on the bloody ground ! 
There are those who tell that the leader's plume 
Was seen on the flight through th' gathering gloom." 

— A change o'er her mien and her spirit pass'd : 
She ruled the heart which had beat so fast, 
She dash'd the tears from her kindling eye, 
With a glance, as of sudden royalty : 
The proud blood sprang in a fiery flow, 
Quick o'er bosom, and cheek, and brow, 
And her young voice rose till the peasant shook 
At the thrilling tone and the falcon-look : [dead, 
— "Dost thou stand by the tombs of the glorious 
And fear not to say that their son hath fled ] 
— Away ! he is lying by lance and shield, — 
Point me the path to his battle-field !" 

The shadows of the forest 

Are about the lady now ; 
She is hurrying through the midnight on, 

Beneath the dark pine-bough. 

There's a murmur of omens in every leaf, 
There's a wail in the stream like the dirge of a chief; 
The branches that rock to the tempest strife 
Are groaning like things of troubled life ; 
The wind from the battle seems rushing by 
With a funeral-march through the gloomy sky ; 
The pathway is rugged, and wild, and long, 
But her frame in the daring of love is strong, 
And her soul as on swelling seas upborne, 
And girded all fearful things to scorn. 

And fearful things were around her spread, 
When she reach'd the field of the warrior-dead ; 
There lay the noble, the valiant, low — 
Ay ! but one word speaks of deeper woe ; 
There lay the loved — on each fallen head 
Mothers vain blessings and tears had shed ; 
Sisters were watching in many a home 
For the fetter'd footstep, no more to come ; 
Names in the prayer of that night were spoken, 
Whose claim unto kindred prayer was broken ; 
And the fire was heap'd, and the bright wine 

pour'd, 
For those, now needing nor hearth nor board ; 
Only a requiem, a shroud, a knell, 
And oh ! ye beloved of women, farewell ! 

Silently, with lips compress' d, 
Pale hands clasp'd above her breast, 



THE LADY OF PROVENCE. 



447 



Stately brow of anguish, high, 
Deathlike cheek, but dauntless eye ; 
Silently, o'er that red plain, 
Moved the lady midst the slain. 

Sometimes it seem'd as a charging-cry, 
Or the ringing tramp of a steed, came nigh ; 
Sometimes a blast of the Paynim horn, 
Sudden and shrill from the mountains borne ; 
And her maidens trembled ; — but on her ear 
No meaning fell with those sounds of fear ; 
They had less of mastery to shake her now, 
Than the quivering, erewhile, of an aspen bough. 
She search'd into many an unclosed eye, 
That look'd, without soul, to the starry sky ; 
She bow'd down o'er many a shatter'd breast, 
She lifted up helmet and cloven crest — 

Not there, not there he lay ! 
" Lead where the most hath been dared and done, 
Where the heart of the battle hath bled, — lead on !" 

And the vassal took the way. 

He turn'd to a dark and lonely tree 
That waved o'er a fountain red : 

Oh ! swiftest there had the currents free 
From noble veins been shed. 

Thickest there the spear-heads gleam'd, 
And the scatter'd plumage stream' d, 
And the broken shields were toss'd, 
And the shiver'd lances cross' d, 
And the mail-clad sleepers round 
Made the harvest of that ground. 

He was there ! the leader amidst his band, 
Where the faithful had made their last, vain stand; 
He was there ! but affection's glance alone 
The darkly-changed in that hour had known ; 
With the falchion yet in his cold hand grasp'd, 
And a banner of France to his bosom clasp'd, 
And the form that of conflict bore fearful trace, 
And the face — oh ! speak not of that dead face ! 
As it lay to answer love's look no more, 
Yet never so proudly loved before ! 

She quell'd in her soul the deep floods of woe, — 
The time was not yet for their waves to flow ; 
She felt the full presence, the might of death, 
Yet there came no sob with her struggling breath; 
And a proud smile shone o'er her pale despair, 
As she turn'd to his followers — "Your lord is 

there ! 
Look on him ! know him by scarf and crest !— 
Bear him away with his sires to rest !" 



Another day, another night, 

And the sailor on the deep 
Hears the low chant of a funeral rite 

From the lordly chapel sweep. 

It comes with a broken and muffled tone, 

As if that rite were in terror done ; 

Yet the song midst the seas hath a thrilling power, 

And he knows 'tis a chieftain's burial-hour. 

Hurriedly, in fear and woe, 
Through the aisle the mourners go ; 
With a hush'd and stealthy tread, 
Bearing on the noble dead ; 
Sheath'd in armour of the field — 
Only his wan face reveal' d, 
Whence the still and solemn gleam 
Doth a strange, sad contrast seem 
To the anxious eyes of that pale band, 
With torches wavering in every hand, 
For they dread each moment the shout of war, 
And the burst of the Moslem scimitar. 

There is no plumed head o'er the bier to bend, 

No brother of battle, no princely friend : 

No sound comes back, like the sounds of yore, 

Unto sweeping swords from the marble floor ; 

By the red fountain the valiant lie, 

The flower of Provencal chivalry ; 

But one free step, and one lofty heart, 

Bear through that scene to the last their part. 

She hath led the death-train of the brave 
To the verge of his own ancestral grave ; 
She hath held o'er her spirit long rigid sway, 
But the struggling passion must now have way. 
In the cheek, half seen through her mourning veil, 
By turns does the swift blood flush and fail ; 
The pride on the lip is lingering still, 
But it shakes as a flame to the blast might thrill ; 
Anguish and triumph are met at strife, 
Rending the cords of her frail young life ; 
And she sinks at last on her warrior's bier, 
Lifting her voice, as if death might hear. 
" I have won thy fame from the breath of wrong, 
My soul hath risen for thy glory strong ! 
Now call me hence, by thy side to be, 
The world thou leav'st has no place for me. 
The light goes with thee, the joy, the worth — 
Faithful and tender ! Oh ! call me forth ! 
Give me my home on thy noble heart, — 
Well have we loved, let us both depart ! " — 
And pale on the breast of the dead she lay, 
The living cheek to the cheek of clay ; 



448 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



The living cheek ! — oh ! it was not vain, 
That strife of the spirit to rend its chain ; 
She is there at rest in her place of pride, 
In death how queen-like — a glorious bride ! 

Joy for the freed one ! — she might not stay- 
When the crown had fallen from her life away ; 
She might not linger — a weary thing, 
A dove with no home for its broken wing, 
Thrown on the harshness of alien skies, 
That know not its own land's melodies. 
From the long heart-withering early gone ; 
She hath lived — she hath loved — her task is done ! 



THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO. 



Tableau, ou l'Amour fait alliance avec la Tombe ; union redout- 
able de la mort et de la vie." — Madame de Stael, 



There was music on the midnight — 

From a royal fane it roll'd ; 
And a mighty bell, each pause between, 

Sternly and slowly toll'd. 
Strange was their mingling in the sky, 

It hush'd the listener's breath ; 
For the music spoke of triumph high, 

The lonely bell— of death ! 

There was hurrying through the midnight 

A sound of many feet ; 
But they fell with a muffled fearfulness 

Along the shadowy street : 
And softer, fainter, grew their tread, 

As it near'd the minster gate, 
Whence a broad and solemn light was shed 

From a scene of royal state. 

Full glow'd the strong red radiance 

In the centre of the nave, 
Where the folds of a purple canopy 

Swept down in many a wave, 
Loading the marble pavement old 

With a weight of gorgeous gloom ; 
For something lay midst their fretted gold, 

Like a shadow of the tomb. 

And within that rich pavilion, 

High on a glittering throne, 
A woman's form sat silently, 

Midst the glare of light alone. 
Her jewell'd robes fell strangely still — - 

The drapery on her breast 



Seem'd with no pulse beneath to thrill, 
So stonelike was its rest ! 

But a peal of lordly music 

Shook e'en the dust below, 
When the burning gold of the diadem 

Was set on her pallid brow ! 
Then died away that haughty sound ; 

And from the encircling band 
Stepp'd prince and chief, midst the hush profound, 

With homage to her hand. 

Why pass'd a faint, cold shuddering 

Over each martial frame, 
As one by one, to touch that hand, 

Noble and leader came 1 
Was not the settled aspect fair ? 

Did not a queenly grace, 
Under the parted ebon hair, 

Sit on the pale still face 1 

Death ! death ! canst thou be lovely 

Unto the eye of life % 
Is not each pulse of the quick high breast 

With thy cold mien at strife 1 
— It was a strange and fearful sight, 

The crown upon that head, 
The glorious robes, and the blaze of light, 

All gather'd round the Dead ! 

And beside her stood in silence 

One with a brow as pale, 
And white lips rigidly compress'd, 

Lest the strong heart should fail : 
King Pedro, with a jealous eye, 

Watching the homage done 
By the land's flower and chivalry 

To her, his martyr'd one. 

But on the face he look'd not, 

Which once his star had been ; 
To every form his glance was turn'd, 

Save of the breathless queen : 
Though something, won from the grave's embrace, 

Of her beauty still was there, 
Its hues were all of that shadowy place, 
It was not for him to bear. 

Alas ! the crown, the sceptre, 

The treasures of the earth, 
And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts, 

Alike of wasted worth ! 
The rites are closed : — bear back the dead 

Unto the chamber deep ! 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTION'S. 449 


Lay down again the royal head, 


Through the long weary day 


Dust with the dust to sleep ! 


I walk, o'ershadow'd by vain dreams of him. 


There is music on the midnight — 


Aid him — and me, too, aid ! 


A requiem sad and slow, 


Oh ! 'tis not well, this earthly love's excess ! 


As the mourners through the sounding aisle 


On thy weak child is laid 


In dark procession go ; 


The burden of too deep a tenderness. 


And the ring of state, and the starry crown, 




And all the rich array, 


Too much o'er him is pour'd 


Are borne to the house of silence down, 


My being's hope — scarce leaving heaven a part ; 


With her, that queen of clay ! 


Too fearfully adored, 




Oh ! make not him the chastener of my heart ! 


And tearlessly and firmly 




Bang Pedro led the train; 


I tremble with a sense 


But his face was wrapt in his folding robe, 


Of grief to be ; I hear a warning low — 


When they lower'd the dust again. 


Sweet mother ! call me hence ! 


'Tis hush'd at last the tomb above — 


This wild idolatry must end in woe. 


Hymns die, and steps depart : 




Who call'd thee strong as Death, Love 1 


The troubled joy of life, 


Mightier thou wast and art. 


Love's lightning happiness, my soul hath known ; 




And, worn with feverish strife, [own ! 




Would fold its wings : take back, take back thine 


ITALIAN" GIRL'S HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. 


Hark ! how the wind swept by ! 


" sanctissima, purissima ! 
Dulcis Virgo Maria ! 
Mater amata, intemerata, 
Ora, ora pro nobis." Sicilian Mariner's Hymn. 


The tempest's voice comes rolling o'er the wave- 
Hope of the sailor's eye, 
And maiden's heart, blest mother ! guide and save. 


In the deep hour of dreams, 




Through the dark woods, and past the moaning sea, 





And by the starlight gleams, 
Mother of sorrows ! lo, I come to thee ! 


TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT. 




From the bright stars, or from the viewless air, 


Unto thy shrine I bear 


Or from some world unreach'd by human thought, 


Night-blowing flowers, like my own heart, to lie 


Spirit, sweet spirit ! if thy home be there, 


All, all unfolded there, 


And if thy visions with the past be fraught, 


Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye. 


Answer me, answer me ! 


For thou, that once didst move 


Have we not communed here of life and death % 


In thy still beauty through an early home — 


Have we not said that love, such love as ours, 


Thou know'st the grief, the love, 


Was not to perish as a rose's breath, 


The fear of woman's soul ; — to thee I come ! 


To melt away, like song from festal bowers 1 




Answer, oh ! answer me ! 


Many, and sad, and deep, 




Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast ; 


Thine eye's last light was mine — the soul thatshone 


Thou, too, couldst watch and weep — 


Intensely, mournfully, through gathering haze — 


Hear, gentlest mother ! hear a heart oppress'd ! 


Didst thou bear with thee to the shore unknown, 




Naught of what lived in that long, earnest gaze ? 


There is a wandering bark 


Hear, hear and answer me ! 


Bearing one from me o'er the restless wave : 




Oh, let thy soft eye mark 


Thy voice — its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone 


His course ! Be with him, holiest ! guide and save ! 


Thrill'd through the tempest of the parting strife, 




Like a faint breeze : oh ! from that music flown, 


My soul is on that way ; 


Send back one sound, if love's be quenchless life ! 


My thoughts are travellers o'er the waters dim ; 


But once, oh ! answer me ! 



450 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



In the still noontide, in the sunset's hush, [deep, 
In the dead hour of night, when thought grows 
When the heart's phantoms from the darkness rush, 
Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep — 
Spirit ! then answer me ! 

By the remembrance of our blended prayer ; 
By all our tears, whose mingling made them sweet; 
By our last hope, the victor o'er despair ; — 
Speak ! if our souls in deathless yearnings meet ; 
Answer me, answer me ! 

The grave is silent : and the far-off sky, 
And the deep midnight — silent all, and lone ! 
Oh ! if thy buried love make no reply, [own ! 
What voice has earth? Hear, pity, speak, mine 
Answer me, answer me ! 



THE CHAMOIS HUNTER'S LOVE. 

" For all his wildness and proud fantasies, 
I love him." Ckoly. 

Thy heart is in the upper world, where fleet the 

chamois bounds, 
Thy heart is where the mountain-fir shakes to the 

torrent-sounds ; 
And where the snow-peaks gleam like stars, through 

the stillness of the air, 
And where the Lauwine's 1 peal is heard — hunter! 

thy heart is there ! 

I know thou lovst me well, dear friend ! but 

better, better far, 
Thou lovest that high and haughty life, with rocks 

and storms at war ; 
In the green, sunny vales with me, thy spirit would 

but pine — 
And yet I will be thine, my love ! and yet I will 

be thine ! 

And I will not seek to woo thee down from those 

thy native heights, 
With the sweet song, our land's own song, of 

pastoral delights ; 
For thou must live as eagles live, thy path is not 

as mine — 
And yet I will be thine, my love ! and yet I will 

be thine. 

1 Lauwine, the avalanche. 

2 An Indian, who had established himself in a township 
of Maine, feeling indignantly the want of sympathy evinced 
towards him by the white inhabitants, particularly on the 



And I will leave my blessed home, my father's 

joyous hearth, 
With all the voices meeting there in tenderness 

and mirth, 
With all the kind and laughing eyes, that in its 

fire-light shine, 
To sit forsaken in thy hut, yet know that thou 

art mine ! 

It is my youth, it is my bloom, it is my glad free 
heart, 

That I cast away for thee — for thee, all reckless 
as thou art ! 

With tremblings and with vigils lone I bind my- 
self to dwell — 

Yet, yet I would not change that lot ; oh no ! I 
love too well ! 

A mournful thing is love which grows to one so 

wild as thou, 
With that bright restlessness of eye, that tameless 

fire of brow ! 
Mournful ! — but dearer far I call its mingled fear 

and pride, 
And the trouble of its happiness, than aught on 

earth beside. 

To listen for thy step in vain, to start at every 

breath, 
To watch through long, long nights of storm, to 

sleep and dream of death, 
To wake in doubt and loneliness — this doom I 

know is mine ; 
And yet I will be thine, my love ! and yet I will 

be thine ! 

That I may greet thee from thine Alps, when 

thence thou com'st at last, 
That I may hear thy thrilling voice tell o'er each 

danger past, 
That I may kneel and pray for thee, and win thee 

aid divine— 
For this I will be thine, my love ! for this I will 

be thine ! 



THE INDIAN WITH HIS DEAD CHILD. 2 

In the silence of the midnight 
I journey with my dead ; 

death of his only child, gave up his farm soon afterwards, 
dug up the body of his child, and carried it with him two 
hundred miles through the forests to join the Canadian In- 
dians. — See Tudor's Letters on the Eastern States of America. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



451 



In the darkness of the forest boughs 
A lonely path I tread. 

But my heart is high and fearless, 

As by mighty wings upborne ; 
The mountain eagle hath not plumes 

So strong as love and scorn. 

I have raised thee from the grave-sod, 
By the white man's path defiled ; 

On to th' ancestral wilderness, 
I bear thy dust, my child ! 

I have ask'd the ancient deserts 

To give my dead a place, 
Where the stately footsteps of the free 

Alone should leave a trace. 

And the tossing pines made answer — 
" Go, bring us back thine own ! " 

And the streams from all the hunters' hills, 
Bush'd with an echoing tone. 

Thou shalt rest by sounding waters 

That yet untamed may roll ; 
The voices of that chainless host 

With joy shall fill thy soul. 

In the silence of the midnight 

I journey with the dead, 
Where the arrows of my father's bow 

Their falcon-flight have sped. 

I have left the spoilers' dwellings 

For evermore behind ; 
Unmingled with their household sounds, 

For me shall sweep the wind. 

Alone, amidst their hearth-fires, 

I watch'd my child's decay, 
Uncheer'd I saw the spirit-light 

From his young eyes fade away. 

When his head sank on my bosom, 
When the death-sleep o'er him fell, 

Was there one to say, "A friend is near ?" 
There was none ! — pale race, farewell ! 

To the forests, to the cedars, 

To the warrior and his bow, 
Back, back ! — I bore thee laughing thence, 

I bear thee slumbering now ! 

I bear thee unto burial 

With the mighty hunters gone ; 



I shall hear thee in the forest breeze, 
Thou wilt speak of joy, my son ! 

In the silence of the midnight 

I journey with the dead ; 
But my heart is strong, my step is fleet, 

My fathers' path I tread. 



SONG OF EMIGRATION. 

There was heard a song on the chiming sea, 
A mingled breathing of grief and glee ; 
Man's voice, unbroken by sighs, was there, 
Filling with triumph the sunny air ; 
Of fresh, green lands, and of pastures new, 
It sang, while the bark through the surges flew. 

But ever and anon 

A murmur of farewell 
Told, by its plaintive tone, 

That from woman's lip it fell. 

" Away, away o'er the foaming main ! " 
This was the free and the joyous strain, 
" There are clearer skies than ours, afar, 
We will shape our course by a brighter star ; 
There are plains whose verdure no foot hath press'd, 
And whose wealth is all for the first brave guest." 

" But, alas ! that we should go," 
Sang the farewell voices then, 

" From the homesteads, warm and low, 
By the brook and in the glen ! " 

" We will rear new homes under trees that glow 
As if gems were the fruitage of every bough ; 
O'er our white walls we will train the vine, 
And sit in its shadow at day's decline , 
And watch our herds, as they range at will 
Through the green savannas, all bright and still. 

" But woe for that sweet shade 
Of the flowering orchard-trees, 

Where first our children play'd 
Midst the birds and honey-bees ! 

"All, all our own shall the forests be, 
As to the bound of the roebuck free ! 
None shall say, ' Hither, no further pass ! ' 
We will track each step through the wavy grass 
We will chase the elk in his speed and might, 
And bring proud spoils to the hearth at night." 



452 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



" But, oh ! the gray church-tower, 
And the sound of Sabbath bell, 

And the shelter'd garden-bower, 
We have bid them all farewell ! 

" We will give the names of our fearless race 
To each bright river whose course we trace ; 
We will leave our memory with mounts and floods, 
And the path of our daring in boundless woods ; 
And our works unto many a lakes green shore, 
Where the Indians' graves lay, alone, before." 

" But who shall teach the flowers, 
Which our children loved, to dwell 

In a soil that is not ours 1 

Home, home and friends, farewell ! " 



THE KING OF ARRAGON'S LAMENT FOR 
HIS BROTHER. 1 

" If I could see him, it were well with me ! " 

Coleridge's " Wallenstein." 

There were lights and sounds of revelling in the 

vanquish'd city's halls, 
As by night the feast of victory was held within 

its walls ; 
And the conquerors fill'd the wine-cup high, after 

years of bright blood shed ; 
But their lord, the King of Arragon, midst the 

triumph wail'd the dead. 

He look'd down from the fortress won, on the 

tents and flowers below, 
The moonlit sea, the torchlit streets — and a gloom 

came o'er his brow : 
The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn 

and cymbal's tone ; 
But his heart, midst that proud music, felt more 

utterly alone. 

And he cried, " Thou art mine, fair city ! thou city 

of the sea ! 
But, oh ! what portion of delight is mine at last in 

thee ?— 
I am lonely midst thy palaces, while the glad waves 

past them roll, 
And the soft breath of thine orange bowers is 

mournful to my soul. 

1 The grief of Ferdinand, King of Arragon, for the loss of 
his brother, Don Pedro, who was killed during the siege of 
Naples, is affectingly described by the historian Mariana. 



" My brother ! my brother ! thou art gone — 

the true and brave, 
And the haughty joy of victory hath died upon thy 

grave. 
There are many round my throne to stand, and to 

march where I lead on ; 
There was one to love me in the world — my brother ! 

thou art gone ! 

" In the desert, in the battle, in the ocean-tempest's 

wrath, 
We stood together, side by side — one hope was 

ours, one path ; 
Thou hast wrapp'd me in thy soldier's cloak, thou 

hast fenced me with thy breast ; 
Thou hast watch'd beside my couch of pain — oh ! 

bravest heart, and best ! 

" I see the festive lights around, — o'er a dull, sad 

world they shine ; 
I hear the voice of victory — my Pedro ! where is 

thine ? 
The only voice in whose kind tone my spirit found 

reply !— 
brother ! I have bought too dear this hollow 

pageantry ! 

" I have hosts and gallant fleets, to spread my 

glory and my sway, 
And chiefs to lead them fearlessly, — my friend 

hath pass'd away ! 
For the kindly look, the word of cheer, my heart 

may thirst in vain; 
And the face that was as light to mine — it cannot 

come again ! 

" I have made thy blood, thy faithful blood, the 

offering for a crown ; 
With love, which earth bestows not twice, I have 

purchased cold renown ; 
How often will my weary heart midst the sounds 

of triumph die, [chivalry ! 

When I think of thee, my brother ! thou flower of 

"I am lonely — I am lonely ! this rest is even as death ! 
Let me hear again the ringing spears, and the 

battle-trumpet's breath ; 
Let me see the fiery charger foam, and the royal 

banner wave — 
But where art thou, my brother ? where ? In thy 

low and early grave ! " 

It is also the subject of one of the old Spanish Ballads in 
Lockhart's beautiful collection. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 453 


And louder swell'd the songs of joy through that 




victorious night, 


THE VAUDOIS WIFE. 1 


And faster flow'd the red wine forth, by the stars' 


" Clasp me a little longer, on the brink 


and torches' light : 


Of fate ! while I can feel thy dear caress ; 


But low and deep, amidst the mirth, was heard 


And when this heart hath ceased to beat, oh ! think — 
And let it mitigate thy woe's excess — 


the conqueror's moan — 


That thou hast been to me all tenderness, 


" My brother ! my brother ! best and bravest ! 


And friend, to more than human friendship just. 
Oh ! by that retrospect of happiness, 


thou art gone ! " 


And by the hopes of an immortal trust, 




God shall assuage thy pangs, when I am laid in dust." 




Gertrude of Wyoming. 




Thy voice is in mine ear, beloved ! 


THE EETUEK 


Thy look is in my heart, 




Thy bosom is my resting-place, 


" Hast thou come with the heart of thy childhood 


And yet I must depart. 


back ; 


Earth on my soul is strong — too strong — 


The free, the pure, the kind V* 


Too precious is its chain, 


— So murmur'd the trees in my homeward track, 


All woven of thy love, dear friend, 


As they play'd to the mountain wind. 


Yet vain — though mighty — vain ! 


" Hath thy soul been true to its early love ? 


Thou see'st mine eye grow dim, beloved ! 


Whisper' d my native streams ; 


Thou see'st my life-blood flow — 


" Hath the spirit nursed amidst hill and grove 


Bow to the Chastener silently, 


Still revered its first high dreams'?" 


And calmly let me go ! 




A little while between our hearts 


" Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer 


The shadowy gulf must lie, 


Of the child in his parent-halls V 


Yet have we for their communing 


Thus breathed a voice on the thrilling air, 


Still, still Eternity ! 


From the old ancestral walls. 






Alas ! thy tears are on my cheek. 


" Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead, 


My spirit they detain ; 


Whose place of rest is nigh ] 


I know that from thine agony 


With the fathers blessing o'er thee shed, 


Is wrung that burning rain. 


With the mother's trusting eye V 


Best ! kindest ! weep not — make the pang, 




The bitter conflict less — 


Then my tears gush'd forth in sudden rain, 


Oh ! sad it is, and yet a joy, 


As I answer'd — " ye shades ! 


To feel thy love's excess ! 


I bring not my childhood's heart again 




To the freedom of your glades. 


But calm thee ! let the thought of death 




A solemn peace restore ! 


" I have turn'd from my first pure love aside, 


The voice that must be silent soon 


bright and happy streams ! 


Would speak to thee once more, 


Light after light, in my soul have died 


That thou may'st bear its blessing on 


The day-spring's glorious dreams. 


Through years of after life — 




A token of consoling love, 


"And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath 


Even from this hour of strife. 


pass'd — 




The prayer at my mother's knee ; 


I bless thee for the noble heart, 


Darken'd and troubled I come at last, 


The tender and the true, 


Home of my boyish glee ! 


Where mine hath found the happiest rest 




That e'er fond woman's knew ; 


" But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears, 




To soften and atone ; 


1 The wife of a Vaudois leader, in one of the attacks made 




on the Protestant hamlets, received a mortal wound, and 


And oh ! ye scenes of those bless'd years, 


died in her husband's arms, exhorting him to courage and 


They shall make me again your own." 


endurance. 



454 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 


I bless thee, faithful friend and guide ! 
For my own, my treasured share 


THE GUERILLA LEADER'S VOW. 


In the mournful secrets of thy soul, 
In thy sorrow, in thy prayer. 


" All my pretty ones ! 
Did you say all ? 


I bless thee for kind looks and words 
Shower'd on my path like dew, 


Let us make medicine of this great revenge. 
To cure this deadly grief ! " Macbeth. 


For all the love in those deep eyes, 


Mt battle-vow ! — no minster walls 


A gladness ever new ! 


Gave back the burning word, 


For the voice which ne'er to mine replied 


Nor cross nor shrine the low deep tone 


But in kindly tones of cheer ; 


Of smother'd vengeance heard : 


For every spring of happiness 


But the ashes of a ruin'd home 


My soul hath tasted here ! 


Thrill'd as it sternly rose, 




With the mingling voice of blood that shook 


I bless thee for the last rich boon 


The midnight's dark repose. 


Won from affection tried — 




The right to gaze on death with thee, 


I breathed it not o'er kingly tombs, 


To perish by thy side ! 


But where my children lay, 


And yet more for the glorious hope 


And the startled vulture at my step 


Even to these moments given — 


Soar'd from their precious clay. 


Did not thy spirit ever lift 


I stood amidst my dead alone — 


The trust of mine to heaven 1 


I kiss'd their lips — I pour'd, 




In the strong silence of that hour, 


Now be thou strong ! Oh, knew we not 


My spirit on my sword. 


Our path must lead to this 1 




A shadow and a trembling still 


The roof-tree fallen, the smouldering floor, 


Were mingled with our bliss ! 


The blacken'd threshold-stone, 


We plighted our young hearts when storms 


The bright hair torn, and soil'd with blood, 


Were dark upon the sky, 


Whose fountain was my own — 


In full, deep knowledge of their task 


These, and the everlasting hills, 


To suffer and to die ! 


Bore witness that wild night ; 




Before them rose th' avenger's soul 


Be strong ! I leave the living voice 


In crush'd affection's might. 


Of this, my martyr'd blood, 




With the thousand echoes of the hills, 


The stars, the searching stars of heaven, 


With the torrent's foaming flood, — 


With keen looks would upbraid 


A spirit midst the caves to dwell, 


If from my heart the fiery vow, 


A token on the air, 


Sear'd on it then, could fade. 


To rouse the valiant from repose, 


They have no cause ! Go, ask the streams 


The fainting from despair. 


That by my paths have swept, 




The red waves that unstain'd were born — 


Hear it, and bear thou on, my love ! 


How hath my faith been kept ? 


Ay, joyously endure ! 




Our mountains must be altars yet, 


And other eyes are on my soul, 


Inviolate and pure ; 


That never, never close, 


There must our God be worshipp'd still 


The sad, sweet glances of the lost — 


With the worship of the free : 


They leave me no repose. 


Farewell i — there's but one pang in death, 


Haunting my night-watch midst the rocks, 


One only, — leaving thee ! 


And by the torrent's foam, 




Through the dark-rolling mists they shine, 




Full, full of love and home ! 




Alas ! the mountain eagle's heart, 




When wrong'd, may yet find rest ; 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



455 



Scorning the place made desolate, 

He seeks another nest. 
But I — your soft looks wake the thirst 

That wins no quenching rain ; 
Ye drive me back, my beautiful ! 

To the stormy fight again. 



THEKLA AT HER LOVER'S GRAVE. 

" Thither where he lies buried ! 
That single spot is the whole world to me." 

Coleridge's " Wallenstein." 

Thy voice was in my soul ! it call'd me on ; 

my lost friend ! thy voice was in my soul. 
From the cold, faded world whence thou art gone, 

To hear no more life's troubled billows roll, 
I come ! I come ! 

Now speak to me again ! we loved so well — 
We loved ! — oh ! still, I know that still we love ! 

I have left all things with thy dust to dwell, 
Through these dim aisles in dreams of thee to 
This is my home ! [rove : 

Speak to me in the thrilling minster's gloom ! 

Speak ! thou hast died, and sent me no farewell! 
I will not shrink — oh ! mighty is the tomb, 

But one thing mightier, which it cannot quell — 
This woman's heart ! 

This lone, full, fragile heart ! — the strong alone 

In love and grief — of both the burning shrine ! 
Thou, my soul's friend ! with grief hast surely 
done, 
But with the love which made thy spirit mine, 
Say, couldst thou part? 

I hear the rustling banners ; and I hear 

The wind's low singing through the fretted stone. 

I hear not thee ; and yet I feel thee near — 

What is this bound that keeps thee from thine 
Breathe it away. [own ] 

I wait thee — I adjure thee ! Hast thou known 
How I have loved thee 1 couldst thou dream it 
all?- 
Am I not here, with night and death alone, 
And fearing not ? And hath my spirit's call 
O'er thine no sway % 

Thou canst not come ! or thus I should not weep ! 
Thy love is deathless — but no longer free ! 



Soon would its wing triumphantly o'ersweep 
The viewless barrier, if such power might be, 
Soon, soon, and fast ! 

But I shall come to thee ! our souls' deep dreams, 
Our young affections, have not gush'd in vain ; 

Soon in one tide shall blend the sever'd streams, 

The worn heart break its bonds — and death and 

Be with the past ! [pain 



THE SISTERS OF SCIO. 

" As are our hearts, our way is one, 
And cannot be divided. Strong affection 
Contends with all things, and o'ercometh all things. 
Will I not live with thee ? will I not cheer thee ? 
Wouldst thou be lonely then ? wouldet thou be sad ?" 

Joanna Baii.lie. 

" Sister, sweet sister ! let me weep awhile ! 

Bear with me — give the sudden passion way ! 
Thoughts of our own lost home, our sunny isle, 

Come as a wind that o'er a reed hath sway ; 
Till my heart dies with yearnings and sick fears — 
Oh ! could my life melt from me in these tears ! 

" Our father's voice, our mother's gentle eye, 
Our brother's bounding step — where are they, 
where 1 

Desolate, desolate our chambers lie ! 

— How hast thou won thy spirit from despair 1 

O'er mine swift shadows, gusts of terror, sweep : 

I sink away — bear with me — let me weep ! " 

" Yes ! weep my sister ! weep, till from thy heart 
The weight flow forth in tears ; yet sink thou 

I bind my sorrow to a lofty part, [not. 

For thee, my gentle one ! our orphan lot 

To meet in quenchless trust. My soul is strong : 

Thou, too, wilt rise in holy might ere long. 

" A breath of our free heavens and noble sires, 
A memory of our old victorious dead — [fires 

These mantle me with power ; and though their 
In a frail censer briefly may be shed, 

Yet shall they light us onward, side by side — 

Have the wild birds, and have not we, a guide \ 

"Cheer, then, beloved ! on whose meek brow is set 
Our mother's image — in whose voice a tone, 

A faint, sweet sound of hers is lingering yet, 
An echo of our childhood's music gone. 

Cheer thee ! thy sister's heart and faith are high : 

Our path is one — with thee I live and die ! " 

[" But who are they that sit, mourning in their loveliness, 
beneath the shadow of a rock on the surf-beaten shore ? The 



456 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



Sisters of Scio by Felicia Dorothea Hemans sung. 

Die — rather let them die in famine amongst sea-sand shells, 
than ere their virgin charms be polluted in the harem of the 
barbarian who has desolated their native isle. Bowed down 
and half dead, beneath what a load of anguish hangs the 
orphan's dishevelled head on the knee of a sister, in pensive 
resignation, and holy faith triumphant over despair, as Felicia 
happily singeth ! "—Professor Wilson, Blackioood's Maga- 
zine. Dec. 1829.] 



BEENAEDO DEL CAEPIO. 

[The celebrated Spanish champion, Bernardo del Carpio, 
having made many ineffectual efforts to procure the release 
of his father, the Count Saldana, who had been imprisoned 
by King Alfonso of Asturias, almost from the time of Ber- 
nardo's birth, at last took up arms in despair. The war 
which he maintained proved so destructive, that the men of 
the land gathered round the King, and united in demanding 
Saldana's liberty, Alfonso, accordingly, offered Bernardo 
immediate possession of his father's person in exchange for 
his castle of Carpio. Bernardo, without hesitation, gave up 
his stronghold, with all his captives ; and being assured that 
his father was then on his way from prison, rode forth with 
the King to meet him. " And when he saw his father ap- 
proaching, he exclaimed," says the ancient chronicle, " ' Oh, 
God! is the Count of Saldana indeed coming?' — 'Look 
where he is,' replied the cruel King ; ' and now go and greet 
him whom you have so long desired to see.' " The remainder 
of the story will be found related in the ballad. The chronicles 
and romances leave us nearly in the dark as to Bernardo's 
history after this event.] 

The warrior bow'd his crested head, and tamed 

his heart of fire, 
And sued the haughty king to free his long-im- 

prison'd sire : 
" I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my 

captive train, 
I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord ! — oh, break 

my father's chain ! " 

" Eise, rise ! even now thy father comes, a ran- 

som'd man this day : 
Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet 

him on his way." 
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on 

his steed, 
And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's 

foamy speed. 

And lo ! from far, as on they press' d, there came 

a glittering band, 
With one that midst them stately rode, as a leader 

in the land ; 
" Now haste, Bernardo, haste ! for there, in very 

truth, is he, 
The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearn'd 

so long to see." 



His dark eye flash' d, his proud breast heaved, his 

cheek's blood came and went ; 
He reach'd that gray-hair'd chieftain's side, and 

there, dismounting, bent ; 
A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand 

he took, — 
What was there in its touch that all his fiery 

spirit shook ? 

That hand was cold — a frozen thing — it dropp'd 

from his like lead : 
He look'd up to the face above — the face was of 

the dead ! 
A plume waved o'er the noble brow — the brow 

was fix'd and white ; 
He met at last his father's eyes — but in them was 

no sight ! 

Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed, but 

who could paint that gaze ] 
They hush'd their very hearts, that saw its horror 

and amaze ; 
They might have chain'd him, as before that stony 

form he stood, 
For the power was stricken from his arm, and 

from his lip the blood. 

" Father ! " at length he murmur'd low, and wept 

like childhood then — 
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of 

warlike men ! — 
He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his 

young renown, — 
He flung the falchion from his side, and in the 

dust sat down. 

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his 

darkly mournful brow, 
" No more, there is no more," he said, " to lift 

the sword for now. — 
My king is false, my hope betray' d, my father — 

oh ! the worth, 
The glory and the loveliness, are pass'd away from 

earth! 

" I thought to stand where banners waved, my 

sire ! beside thee yet — 
I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's 

free soil had met ! 
Thou wouldst have known my spirit then — for 

thee my fields were won, — 
And thou hast perish'd in thy chains, as though 

thou hadst no son !" 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTION'S. 



457 



Then, starting from the ground once more, he 
seized the monarch's rein, 

Amidst the pale and wilder'd looks of all the 
courtier train ; 

And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing 
"war-horse led, 

And sternly set them face to face — the king be- 
fore the dead ! — 

" Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's 

hand to kiss? — 
Be still, and gaze thou on, false king ! and tell 

me what is this ! 
The voice, the glance, the heart I sought — give 

answer, where are they 1 — 
If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life 

through this cold clay ! 

"Into these glassy eyes put light Be still ! keep 

down thine he, — 

Bid these white lips a blessing speak — this earth 
is not my sire ! 

Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom 
my blood was shed, — 

Thou canst not — and a king ! His dust be moun- 
tains on thy head !" 

He loosed the steed ; his slack hand fell — upon 
the silent face 

He cast one long, deep, troubled look — then turn'd 
from that sad place : 

His hope was crush'd, his after-fate untold in mar- 
tial strain, — 

His banner led the spears no more amidst the 
hills of Spain. 



THE TOMB OF MADAME LANGHANS. 

" To a mysteriously consorted pair 
This place is consecrate ; to death and life, 
And to the best affections that proceed 
From this conjunction." Wordsworth. 

[At Hindlebank, near Berne, she is represented as burst- 
ing from the sepulchre, with her infant in her arms, at the 
sound of the last trumpet. An inscription on the tomb con- 
cludes thus: — "Here ami, O God! with the child whom 
thou hast given me."] 

How many hopes were borne upon thy bier, 
bride of stricken love ! in anguish hither ! 
Like flowers, the first and fairest of the year, 
Pluck'd on the bosom of the dead to wither ; 
Hopes from their source all holy, though of earth, 
All brightly gathering round affection's hearth. 



Of mingled prayer they told ; of Sabbath hours ; 
Of morn's farewell, and evening's blessed meeting; 
Of childhood's voice, amidst the household bowers; 
And bounding step, and smile of joyous greeting; — 
But thou, young mother ! to thy gentle heart 
Did'st take thy babe, and meekly so depart. 

How many hopes have sprung in radiance hence ! 
Their trace yet lights the dust where thou art 

sleeping ! 
A solemn joy comes o'er me, and a sense 
Of triumph, blent with nature's gush of weeping, 
As, kindling up the silent stone, I see 
The glorious vision, caught by faith, of thee. 

Slumberer ! love calls thee, for the night is past; 
Put on the immortal beauty of thy waking ! 
Captive ! and hear'st thou not the trumpet's blast, 
The long, victorious note, thy bondage breaking ! 
Thou hear'st, thou answer'st, " God of earth and 

heaven ! 
Here am I, with the child whom thou hast given !" 



THE EXILE'S DIRGE. 

" Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 
Nor the furious winter's rages ; 
Thou thy worldly task hast done, 
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages." Cymbeline. 

[" I attended a funeral where there were a number of the 
German settlers present. After I had performed such service 
as is usual on similar occasions, a most venerable-looking old 
man came forward, and asked me if I were willing that they 
should perform some of their peculiar rites. He opened a 
very ancient version of Luther's Hymns, and they all began 
to sing, in German, so loud that the woods echoed the strain. 
There was something affecting in the singing of these ancient 
people, carrying one of their brethren to his last home, and 
using the language and rites which they had brought with 
them over the sea from the VaUrland, a word which often 
occurred in this hymn. It was a long, slow, and mournful 
air, which they sung as they bore the body along : the words 
' mein Gott,' ' mein Bruder,' and ' Vaterland,' died away in 
distant echoes amongst the woods. I shall long remember 
that funeral hymn." — Flint's Recollections of the Valley of 
the Mississippi.] 

There went a dirge through the forest's gloom. 
— An exile was borne to a lonely tomb. 

" Brother ! " (so the chant was sung 
In the slumberer's native tongue,) 
" Friend and brother ! not for thee 
Shall the sound of weeping be : 
Long the exile's woe hath lain 
On thy life a withering chain ; 



458 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



Music from thine own blue streams 
Wander'd through thy fever-dreams ; 
Voices from thy country's vines 
Met thee midst the alien pines ; 
And thy true heart died away, 
And thy spirit would not stay." 

So swell'd the chant ; and the deep wind's moan, 
Seem'd through the cedars to murmur — "Gone!'''' 

" Brother ! by the rolling Rhine 
Stands the home that once was thine ; 
Brother ! now thy dwelling lies 
Where the Indian arrow flies ! 
He that bless'd thine infant head 
Fills a distant greensward bed ; 
She that heard thy lisping prayer 
Slumbers low beside him there ; 
They that earliest with thee play'd 
Rest beneath their own oak-shade, 
Far, far hence ! — yet sea nor shore 
Haply, brother ! part ye more ; 
God hath call'd thee to that band 
In the immortal Fatherland ! " 

" The Fatherland!" — with that sweet word 
A burst of tears midst the strain was heard. 

" Brother ! were we there with thee 
Rich would many a meeting be ! 
Many a broken garland bound, 
Many a mourn'd and lost one found ! 
But our task is still to bear, 
Still to breathe in changeful air ; 
Loved and bright things to resign, 
As even now this dust of thine ; 
Yet to hope ! — to hope in heaven, 
Though flowers fall, and ties be riven — 
Yet to pray ! and wait the hand 
Beckoning to the Fatherland ! " 

And the requiem died in the forest's gloom ; 
They had reach'd the exile's lonely tomb. 



THE DREAMING CHILD. 



" Alas ! what kind of grief should thy years know ? 
Thy brow and cheek are smooth as waters be 
When no breath troubles them." 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

And is there sadness in thy dreams, my boy 1 
What should the cloud be made of 1 Blessed child ! 



Thy spirit, borne upon a breeze of joy, [mild : 
All day hath ranged through sunshine clear, yet 

And now thou tremblest ! — wherefore 1 — in thy soul 
There lies no past, no future. Thou hast heard 
No sound of presage from the distance roll, 
Thy heart bears traces of no arrowy word. 

From thee no love hath gone ; thy mind's young eye 
Hath look'd not into death's, and thence become 
A questioner of mute eternity, 
A weary searcher for a viewless home : 

Nor hath thy sense been quicken'd unto pain 
By feverish watching for some step beloved : 
Free are thy thoughts, an ever-changeful train, 
Glancing like dewdrops, and as lightly moved. 

Yet now, on billows of strange passion toss'd, 
How art thou wilder'd in the cave of sleep ! 
My gentle child ! midst what dim phantoms lost, 
Thus in mysterious anguish dost thou weep 1 

Awake ! they sadden me — those early tears, 
First gushings of the strong, dark river's flow, 
That must o'ersweep thy soul with coming years, 
Th' unfathomable flood of human woe ! 

Awful to watch, even rolling through a dream, 
Forcing wild spray-drops but from childhood's eyes ! 
Wake, wake ! as yet thy life's transparent stream 
Should wear the tinge of none but summer skies. 

Come from the shadow of those realms unknown, 
Where now thy thoughts dismay'd and darkling 

rove; 
Come to the kindly region all thine own, 
The home still bright for thee with guardian love. 

Happy, fair child ! that yet a mother's voice 
Can win thee back from visionary strife ! — 
Oh, shall my soul, thus waken'd to rejoice, 
Start from the dreamlike wilderness of life 1 



THE CHARMED PICTURE. 

" Oh ! that those lips had language ! Life hath pass'd 
With me but roughly since I saw thee last." 

Cowper. 

Thine eyes are charm'd — thine earnest eyes- 

Thou image of the dead ! 
A spell within their sweetness lies, 

A virtue thence is shed. 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 459 


Oft in their meek blue light enshrined 


Thou makest those mortal regions, whence I go, 


A blessing seems to be, 


Too mighty in their loveliness. Farewell, 


And sometimes there my wayward mind 


That I may part in peace ! 


A still reproach can see : 






Leave me ! — thy footstep, with its lightest sound, 


And sometimes pity — soft and deep, 


The very shadow of thy waving hair, 


And quivering through a tear ; 


Wakes in my soul a feeling too profound, 


Even as if love in heaven could weep 


Too strong for aught that loves and dies, to bear — 


For grief left drooping here. 


Oh ! bid the conflict cease ! 


And oh, my spirit needs that balm ! 


I hear thy whisper — and the warm tears gush 


Needs it midst fitful mirth ! 


Into mine eyes, the quick pulse thrills my heart ; 


And in the night-hour's haunted calm, 


Thou bid'st the peace, the reverential hush, 


And by the lonely hearth. 


The still submission, from my thoughts depart : 




Dear one ! this must not be. 


Look on me thus, when hollow praise 




Hath made the weary pine 


The past looks on me from thy mournful eye, 


For one true tone of other days, 


The beauty of our free and vernal days ; 


One glance of love like thine ! 


Our communings with sea, and hill, and sky — 




Oh! take that bright world from my spirit's gaze ! 


Look on me thus, when sudden glee 


Thou art all earth to me ! 


Bears my quick heart along, 




On wings that struggle to be free, 


Shut out the sunshine from my dying room, 


As bursts of skylark song. 


The jasmine's breath, the murmur of the bee , 




Let not the joy of bird-notes pierce the gloom ! 


In vain, in vain ! — too soon are felt 


They speak of love, of summer, and of thee, 


The wounds they cannot flee : 


Too much — and death is here ! 


Better in childlike tears to melt, 




Pouring my soul on thee ! 


Doth our own spring make happy music now, 




From the old beech-roots flashing into day ] 


Sweet face, that o'er my childhood shone ! 


Are the pure lilies imaged in its flow ? 


Whence is thy power of change, 


Alas ! vain thoughts ! that fondly thus can stray 


Thus ever shadowing back my own, 


From the dread hour so near ! 


The rapid and the strange ? 






If I could but draw courage from the light 


Whence are they charm'd — those earnest eyes 1 


Of thy clear eye, that ever shone to bless ! 


— I know the mystery well ! 


— Not now! 'twill not be now! — my aching sight, 


In mine own trembling bosom lies 


Drinks from that fount a flood of tenderness, 


The spirit of the spell ! 


Bearing all strength away ! 


Of Memory, Conscience, Love, 'tis born — 


Leave me ! — thou com'st between my heart and 


Oh ! change no longer, thou ! 


Heaven ; 


For ever be the blessing worn 


I would be still, in voiceless prayer to die ! — 


On thy pure thoughtful brow ! 


Why must our souls thus love, and then be riven? 




Return ! thy parting wakes mine agony ! 





Oh, yet awhile delay ! 


PASTING WORDS. 


THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD. 


" One struggle more, and I am free."— Byron. 


Thou'bt passing hence, my brother ! 




my earliest friend, farewell ! 


Leave me ! oh, leave me ! Unto all below 


Thou'rt leaving me, without thy voice, 


Thy presence binds me with too deep a spell ; 


In a lonely home to dwell ; 



460 SONGS OF THE AFFECTION'S. 


And from the hills, and from the hearth, 




And from the household tree, 


THE TWO HOMES. 


With thee departs the lingering mirth, 


" Oh, if the soul immortal be, 


The brightness goes with thee. 1 


Is not its love immortal too ? " 




See'st thou my home 1 'Tis where yon woods are 


But thou, my friend, my brother ! 


waving, 


Thou'rt speeding to the shore 


In their dark richness, to the summer air, 


Where the dirgelike tone of parting words 


Where yon blue stream, a thousand flower-banks 


Shall smite the soul no more ! 


laving, 
Leads down the hills a vein of light, — 'tis there ! 


And thou wilt see our holy dead, 


The lost on earth and main : 




Into the sheaf of kindred hearts, 


Midst those green wilds how many a fount lies 


Thou wilt be bound again ! 


gleaming, 




Fringed with the violet, colour'd with the skies ! 


Tell, then, our friend of boyhood 


My boyhood's haunt, through days of summer 


That yet his name is heard 


dreaming, 


On the blue mountains, whence his youth 


Under young leaves that shook with melodies. 


Pass'd like a swift, bright bird. 




The light of his exulting brow, 


My home ! The spirit of its love is breathing 


The vision of his glee, 


In every wind that blows across my track ; 


Are on me still — oh ! still I trust 


From its white walls the very tendrils wreathing, 


That smile again to see. 


Seem with soft links to draw the wanderer back. 


And tell our fair young sister, 


There am I loved — there pray'd for — there my 


The rose cut down in spring, 


mother 


That yet my gushing soul is fill'd 


Sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful eye ; 


With lays she loved to sing. 


There my young sisters watch to greet their 


Her soft deep eyes look through my dreams, 


brother — 


Tender and sadly sweet ; — 


Soon their glad footsteps down the path will fly. 


Tell her my heart within me burns 




Once more that gaze to meet. 


There, in sweet strains of kindred music blending, 




All the home-voices meet at day's decline ; 


And tell our white-hair'd father, 


One are those tones, as from one heart ascending, 


That in the paths be trode, 


There laughs my home — sad stranger ! where is 


The child he loved, the last on earth, 


thine ? 


Yet walks and worships God. 




Say, that his last fond blessing yet 


Ask'st thou of mine ] In solemn peace 'tis lying, 


Eests on my soul like dew, 


Far o'er the deserts and the tombs away ; 


And by its hallowing might I trust 


'Tis where /, too, am loved with love undying, 


Once more his face to view. 


And fond hearts wait my step— But where are they? 


And tell our gentle mother, 


Ask where the earth's departed have their dwelling ; 


That on her grave I pour 


Ask of the clouds, the stars, the trackless air ! 


The sorrows of my spirit forth, 


I know it not, yet trust the whisper, telling 


As on her breast of yore. 


My lonely heart that love unchanged is there. 


Happy thou art that soon, how soon, 




Our good and bright will see ! — 


And what is home, and where, but with the loving 


brother, brother ! may I dwell, 


Happy thou art, that so canst gaze on thine ! 


Ere long, with them and thee ! 


My spirit feels but, in its weary roving, 




That with the dead, where'er they be, is mine, 


1 " Messages from the living to the dead are not uncommon 


relieve the hours of separation by occasional intercourse with 


in the Highlands. The Gaels have such a ceaseless con- 


the objects of their earliest affections." — See the Notes to 


sciousness of immortality, that their departed friends are 


Mrs Brunton's Works. 


considered as merely absent for a time, and permitted to 





SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



461 



Go to thy home, rejoicing son and brother ! 
Bear in fresh gladness to the household scene ! 
For me, too, watch the sister and the mother, 
I well believe — but dark seas roll between. 



THE SOLDIER'S DEATH-BED. 



" Wie herrlich die Sonne dort untergeht ! da ich noch ein Bube war 
-war's mein Lieblingsgedanke, wie sie zu leben, wie sie zu sterben ! " 

Die Kaubek. 



LIKE thee to die, thou sun ! — My boyhood's dream 
Was this ; and now my spirit, with thy beam, 
Ebbs from a field of victory ! — yet the hour 
Bears back upon me, with a torrent's power, 
Nature's deep longings. Oh ! for some kind eye 
Wherein to meet love's fervent farewell gaze ; 
Some breast to pillow life's last agony, 
Some voice, to speak of home and better days, 
Beyond the pass of shadows ! But I go, 
I that have been so loved, go hence alone ; 
And ye, now gathering round my own hearth's glow, 
Sweet friends ! it may be that a softer tone, 
EVn in this moment, with your laughing glee, 
Mingles its cadence while you speak of me — 
Of me, your soldier, midst the mountains lying, 
On the red banner of his battles dying, 
Far, far away ! And oh ! your parting prayer — 
Will not his name be fondly murmur'd there 1 
It will !— A blessing on that holy hearth ! 
Though clouds are darkening to o'ercast its mirth. 
Mother ! I may not hear thy voice again ; 
Sisters ! ye watch to greet my step in vain ; 
Young brother, fare thee well ! — on each dear head 
Blessing and love a thousandfold be shed, 
My soul's last earthly breathings ! May your home 
Smile for you ever ! — May no winter come, 
No world, between your hearts ! May ev'n your tears, 
For my sake, full of long-remember'd years, 
Quicken the true affections that entwine 
Your lives in one bright bond ! I may not sleep 
Amidst our fathers, where those tears might shine 
Over my slumbers ; yet your love will keep 
My memory living in th' ancestral halls, 
Where shame hath never trod. The dark night falls, 
And I depart. The brave are gone to rest, 
The brothers of my combats, on the breast 
Of the red field they reap'd : — their work is done — 
Thou, too, art set ! — farewell, farewell, thou sun ! 
The last lone watcher of the bloody sod 
Offers a trusting spirit up to God. 



THE IMAGE IN THE HEART. 

TO * * * 

" True, indeed, it is, 
That they whom death has hidden from our sight, 
Are worthiest of the mind's regard ; with them 
The future cannot contradict the past — 
Mortality's last exercise and proof 
Is undergone." Wordsworth. 

" The love where death hath set his seal, 
2s or age can chill, nor rival steal, 

Hor falsehood disavow." Byron. 

I call thee bless'd ! — though now the voice be fled 
Which to thy soul brought dayspring with its tone, 
And o'er the gentle eyes though dust be spread, 
Eyesthatne'er look'don thine but lightwas thrown 
Far through thy breast : 

And though the music of thy life be broken, 
Or changed in every chord since he is gone — 
Feeling all this, even yet, by many a token, 
thou, the deeply, but the brightly lone ! 
I call thee bless'd ! 



For in thy heart there is a holy spot, 
As mid the waste an isle of fount and palm, 
For ever green ! — the world's breath enters not, 
The passion-tempests may not break its calm : 
'Tis thine, all thine ! 

Thither, in trust unbaffled, may'st thou turn 
From bitter words, cold greetings, heartless eyes, 
Quenching thy soul's thirst at the hidden urn 
That, fill'd with waters of sweet memory, lies 
In its own shrine. 

Thou hast thy home ! — there is no power in change 
To reach that temple of the past ; no sway, 
In all time brings of sudden, dark, or strange, 
To sweep the still transparent peace away 
From its hush'd air ! 

And oh ! that glorious image of the dead ! 
Sole thing whereon a deathless love may rest, 
And in deep faith and dreamy worship shed 
Its high gifts fearlessly ! I call thee bless'd, 
If only there. 

Bless'd, for the beautiful within thee dwelling 
Never to fade ! — a refuge from distrust, 
A spring of purer life, still freshly welling, 
To clothe the barrenness of earthly dust 
With flowers divine. 

And thou hast been beloved ! — it is no dream, 
No false mirage for thee, the fervent love, 



462 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



The rainbow still unreached, the ideal gleam, 
That ever seems before, beyond, above, 
Far off to shine. 

But thou, from all the daughters of the earth 
Singled and mark'd, hast Tcnown its home and place ; 
And the high memory of its holy worth 
To this our life a glory and a grace 
For thee hath given. 

And art thou not still fondly, truly loved 1 
Thou art ! — the love his spirit bore away 
Was not for death ! — a treasure but removed, 
A bright bird parted for a clearer day, — 
Thine still in heaven ! 



THE LAND OF DREAMS. 

" And dreams, in their development, have breath, 
And tears and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 
They make us what we were not — what they will , 
And shake us with the vision that's gone by." 

Byron. 

spirit-land ! thou land of dreams ! 
A world thou art of mysterious gleams, 
Of startling voices, and sounds at strife — 
A world of the dead in the hues of life. 

Like a wizard's magic glass thou art, 
When the wavy shadows float by, and part : 
Visions of aspects, now loved, now strange, 
Glimmering and mingling in ceaseless change. 

Thou art like a city of the past, 
With its gorgeous halls into fragments cast, 
Amidst whose ruins there glide and play 
Familiar forms of the world's to-day. 

Thou art like the depths where the seas have birth, 
Rich with the wealth that is lost from earth, — 
All the sere flowers of our days gone by, 
And the buried gems in thy bosom lie. 

Yes ! thou art like those dim sea-caves, 
A realm of treasures, a realm of graves ! [and go, 
And the shapes through thy mysteries that come 
Are of beauty and terror, of power and woe. 

But for me, thou picture-land of sleep ! 
Thou art all one world of affections deep, — 
And wrung from my heart is each flushing dye 
That sweeps o'er thy chambers of imagery. 



And thy bowers are fair — even as Eden fair: 
All the beloved of my soul are there ! 
The forms my spirit most pines to see, 
The eyes whose love hath been life to me : 

They are there — and each blessed voice I hear, 
Kindly, and joyous, and silvery clear ; 
But under-tones are in each, that say, — 
" It is but a dream ; it will melt away ! " 

I walk with sweet friends in the sunset's glow ; 

I listen to music of long ago ; 

But one thought, like an omen, breathes faint 

through the lay, — 
" It is but a dream ; it will melt away ! " 

I sit by the hearth of my early days ; 
All the home-faces are met by the blaze, — 
And the eyes of the mother shine soft, yet say, 
" It is but a dream ; it will melt away ! " 

And away, like a flower's passing breath, 'tis gone, 
And I wake more sadly, more deeply lone ! 
Oh ! a haunted heart is a weight to bear, — 
Bright faces, kind voices ! where are ye, where 1 

Shadow not forth, thou land of dreams, 
The past, as it fled by my own blue streams ! 
Make not my spirit within me burn 
For the scenes and the hours that may ne'er return ! 

Call out from the future thy visions bright, 
From the world o'er the grave, take thy solemn 

light, 
And oh ! with the loved whom no more I see, 
Show me my home, as it yet may be ! 

As it yet may be in some purer sphere, 
No cloud, no parting, no sleepless fear ; [day, 
So my soul may bear on through the long, long 
Till I go where the beautiful melts not away ! 



WOMAN ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE. 

" Where hath not woman stood 
Strong in affection's might ? a reed, upborne 
By an o'ermastering current ! " 

Gentle and lovely form ! 

What didst thou here, 
When the fierce battle-storm 

Bore down the spear ? 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 463 


Banner and shiver'd crest, 
Beside thee strown, 

Tell that amidst the best 
Thy work was done ! 


But thou, pale sleeper ! thou 
With the slight frame, 

And the rich locks, whose glow 
Death cannot tame ; 


Yet strangely, sadly fair, 

O'er the wild scene, 
Gleams, through its golden hair, 

That brow serene. 


Only one thought, one power, 

Thee could have led, 
So, through the tempest's hour, 

To lift thy head ! 


Low lies the stately head, — 
Earth-bound the free ; 

How gave those haughty dead 
A place to thee 1 


Only the true, the strong, 
The love, whose trust 

Woman's deep soul too long 
Pours on the dust ! 


Slumberer ! thine early bier 
Friends should have crown'd, 

Many a flower and tear 
Shedding around ; — 


THE DESERTED HOUSE. 


Soft voices, clear and young, 

Mingling their swell, 
Should o'er thy dust have sung 

Earth's last farewell ; — 


Gloom is upon thy lonely hearth, 

silent house ! once fill'd with mirth ; 

Sorrow is in the breezy sound 

Of thy tall poplars whispering round. 


Sisters, above the grave 

Of thy repose, 
Should have bid violets wave 

With the white rose. 


The shadow of departed hours 
Hangs dim iipon thine early flowers ; 
Ev'n in thy sunshine seems to brood 
Something more deep than solitude. 


Now must the trumpet's note, 

Savage and shrill, 
For requiem o'er thee float, 

Thou fair and still ! 


Fair art thou, fair to a stranger's gaze, 
Mine own sweet home of other days ! 
My children's birthplace ! — yet for me 
It is too much to look on thee. 


And the swift charger sweep 

In full career, 
Trampling thy place of sleep — 

Why cam'st thou here 1 


Too much ! for all about thee spread, 
I feel the memory of the dead, 
And almost linger for the feet 
That never more my step shall meet. 


Why ? Ask the true heart why 

Woman hath been 
Ever where brave men die, 

Unshrinking seen 1 


The looks, the smiles, all vanish'd now, 
Follow me where thy roses blow ; 
The echoes of kind household-words 
Are with me midst thy singing-birds. 


Unto this harvest ground 
Proud reapers came, — 

Some, for that stirring sound, 
A warrior's name ; 


Till my heart dies, it dies away 
In yearnings for what might not stay ; 
For love which ne'er deceived my trust. 
For all which went with "dust to dust !" 


Some for the stormy play 
And joy of strife; 

And some to fling away 
A weary life ; — 


What now is left me, but to raise 
From thee, lorn spot ! my spirit's gaze, 
To lift through tears my straining eye 
Up to my Father's house on high ] 



464 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



Oh ! many are the mansions there, 1 
But not in one hath grief a share ! 
No haunting shade from things gone by 
May there o'ersweep th' unchanging sky. 

And they are there, whose long-loved mien 
In earthly home no more is seen ; 
Whose places, where they smiling sate, 
Are left unto us desolate. 

We miss them when the board is spread ; 
We miss them when the prayer is said ; 
Upon our dreams their dying eyes 
In still and mournful fondness rise. 

But they are where these longings vain 
Trouble no more the heart and brain ; 
The sadness of this aching love 
Dims not our Father's house above. 

Ye are at rest, and I in tears, 2 
Ye dwellers of immortal spheres ! 
Under the poplar boughs I stand, 
And mourn the broken household band. 

But, by your life of lowly faith, 
And by your joyful hope in death, 
Guide me, till on some brighter shore 
The sever'd wreath is bound once more ! 

Holy ye were, and good, and true ! 
No change can cloud my thoughts of you ; 
Guide me, like you to live and die, 
And reach my Father's house on high ! 



THE STRANGER'S HEART. 

The stranger's heart ! Oh, wound it not ! 
A yearning anguish is its lot ; 
In the green shadow of thy tree, 
The stranger finds no rest with thee. 

Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves 
Glad music round thy household eaves ; 
To him that sound hath sorrow's tone — 
The stranger's heart is with his own. 

1 " In my father's house there are many mansions." — 

John, chap. xiv. 

2 From an ancient Hebrew dirge : 

" Mourn for the mourner, and not for the dead, 
For he is at rest, and we in tears ! " 



Thou think'st thy children's laughing play 
A lovely sight at fall of day ; 
Then are the stranger's thoughts oppress'd — 
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast. 

Thou think'st it sweet when friend with friend 
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend ; 
Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim — 
Far, far are those who pray'd with him. 

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage-land, 
The voices of thy kindred band — 
Oh ! midst them all when bless'd thou art, 
Deal gently with the stranger's heart ! 



TO A REMEMBERED PICTURE. 

[She was singularly impressed by the picture at Holy- 
rood House, shown as that of Rizzio. The authenticity of 
this designation is more than doubtful ; but hers was not a 
mind for question or cavil on points of this nature. The 
" local habitation and the name" were in themselves suffi- 
cient to awaken her fancy, and to satisfy her faith. As 
Rizzio's portrait, it took its place in her imagination ; and the 
train of deep and mournful thoughts it suggested, imbued, as 
was her wont, with the colouring of her own individual feel- 
ngs, was embodied in the lines "To a Remembered Pic- 
iture."— Memoir, p. 197-8.] 

They haunt me still — those calm, pure, holy eyes! 

Their piercing sweetness wanders through my 
dreams ; 
The soul of music that within them lies 

Comes o'er my soul in soft and sudden gleams : 
Life — spirit-life — immortal and divine — 
Is there ; and yet how dark a death was thine ! 

Could it — oh! could it be — meek child of song? 

The might of gentleness on that fair brow — 
Was the celestial gift no shield from wrong 1 

Bore it no talisman to ward the blow 1 
Ask if a flower, upon the billows cast, 
Might brave their strife — a flute-note hush the blast ! 

Are there not deep, sad oracles to read 
In the clear stillness of that radiant face ? 

Yes ! even like thee must gifted spirits bleed, 
Thrown on a world, for heavenly things no place ! 

Bright, exiled birds that visit alien skies, 

Pouring on storms then suppliant melodies. 

And seeking ever some true, gentle breast, 

Whereon their trembling plumage might repose, 



SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



465 



And their free song-notes, from that happy nest, 

Gush as a fount that forth from sunlight flows ; 

Vain dream! — the love whose precious balms might 

save 
Still, still denied — they struggle to the grave. 

Yet my heart shall not sink ! — another doom, 
Victim ! hath set its promise in thine eye : 

A light is there, too quenchless for the tomb, 
Bright earnest of a nobler destiny ; 

Telling of answers, in some far-off sphere, 

To the deep souls that find no echo here. 



COME HOME ! 

Come home ! There is a sorrowing breath 

In music since ye went, 
And the early flower-scents wander by 

With mournful memories blent. 
The tones in every household voice 

Are grown more sad and deep ; 
And the sweet word — brother — wakes a wish 

To turn aside and weep. 

ye beloved ! come home ! The hour 
Of many a greeting tone, 

The time of hearth-light and of song 

Eeturns — and ye are gone ! 
And darkly, heavily it falls 

On the forsaken room, 
Burdening the heart with tenderness, 

That deepens midst the gloom. 

Where finds it you, ye wandering ones ! 

With all your boyhood's glee 
Untamed 1 Beneath the desert's palm, 

Or on the lone mid-sea 1 
By stormy hills of battles old 1 

Or where dark rivers foam 1 — 
Oh ! life is dim where ye are not — 

^ack, ye beloved, come home ! 

Come with VH e leaves and winds of spring, 

And swift birds, o'er the main ! 
Our love is grown too sorrowful 

Bring us its youth again ! 
Bring the glad tones to music back ! 

Still, still your home is fair, 

1 Quoted from a letter of Lord Byron's. He describes the 
impression produced upon him by some tombs at Bologna, 
bearing this simple inscription, and adds, "When I die, I 



The spirit of your sunny life 
Alone is wanting there ! 



THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION. 

"Implora pace '. "l 

One draught, kind fairy ! from that fountain deep, 
To lay the phantoms of a haunted breast ; 
And lone affections, which are griefs, to steep 
In the cool honey-dews of dreamless rest ; 
And from the soul the lightning-marks to lave — 
One draught of that sweet wave ! 

Yet, mortal ! pause ! Within thy mind is laid 
Wealth, gather'd long and slowly; thoughts divine 
Heap that full treasure-house; and thou hast 

made 
The gems of many a spirit's ocean thine ; — 
Shall the dark waters to oblivion bear 
A pyramid so fair 1 

Pour from the fount ! and let the draught efface 
All the vain lore by memory's pride amass'd, 
So it but sweep along the torrent's trace, 
And fill the hollow channels of the past ; 
And from the bosom's inmost folded leaf, 
Base the one master-grief ! 

Yet pause once more ! All, all thy soul hath known, 
Loved, felt, rejoiced in, from its grasp must fade ! 
Is there no voice whose kind, awakening tone 
A sense of spring-time in thy heart hath made ? 
No eye whose glance thy daydreams would recall 1 ? 
— Think — wouldst thou part with all ? 

Fill with forgetfulness ! There are, there are 
Voices whose music I have loved too well — 
Eyes of deep gentleness ; but they are far — 
Never ! oh never, in my home to dwell ! 
Take their soft looks from off my yearning soul — 
Fill high th' oblivious bowl ! 

Yet pause again ! With memory wilt thou cast 
The undying hope away, of memory born 1 
Hope of reunion, heart to heart at last, 
No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn 1 
Wouldst thou erase all records of delight 
That make such visions bright ? 

could wish that some friend would see these words, and no 
other, placed above my grave, — ' Implora pace /' " 



466 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Fill with forgetfulness, fill high ! Yet stay — 

Tis from the past we shadow forth the land 
Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way, 
And the soul's friends be wreath'd in one bright 

band. 
Pour the sweet waters bach on their own rill — 
I must remember still. 

[" The 'Songs of the Affections ' were published in the 
summer of 1830. This collection of lyrics has been, perhaps, 
less popular than other of Mrs Hemans's later works. It was 
hardly, indeed, to be expected that the principal poem, ' A 
Spirit's Return,' the origin and subject of which we have 
already described, should appeal to the feelings of so large a 
circle as had borne witness to the truth of the tales of actual 
life and sacrifice and suffering contained in the ' Records of 
Woman.' But there are parts of the poem solemnly and 
impressively powerful. The passages in which the speaker 
describes her youth — the disposition born with her to take 
pleasure in spiritual contemplations, and to listen to that 
voice in nature which speaks of another state of being beyond 
this visible world — prepare us most naturally for the agony of 
her desire — when he, in whom she had devotedly embarked 
all her earthly hopes and affections — 

' till the world held naught 



Save the one being to my centred thought,' 



For their sake, for the dead — whose image naught 

May dim within the temple of my breast — 

For their love's sake, which now no earthly 

thought 
May shake or trouble with its own unrest, 
Though the past haunt me as a spirit — yet 
I ask not to forget. 

was taken away from her for ever— to see him, if but for a 
moment— to speak with him only once again ! 

As the crisis of interest approaches, the variety given by 
alternate rhymes to the heroic measure in which the tale was 
written, is wisely laid aside, and it proceeds with a resistless 
energy — 

' Hast thou been told, that from the viewless bourne 
The dark way never hath allow'd return ?' etc. 

" The conclusion of this fine poem is far from fulfilling the 
promise of its commencement ; but it was impossible to imagine 
any events, or give utterance to any feelings, succeeding those 
so awful and exciting, which should not appear feeble, and 
vague, and exhausted. Mrs Hemans would sometimes regret 
that she had not bestowed more labour upon the close of her 
work : this, it is true, might have been more carefully elabo- 
rated, but, from the nature of her subject, I doubt the possi- 
bility of its havingbeen substantially improved." — Chorley's 
Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 101-5.] 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE BRIDAL-DAY. 

[On a monument in a Venetian church is an epitaph, re- 
cording that the remains beneath are those of a noble lady, 
who expired suddenly while standing as a bride at the altar.] 

" We bear her home ! we bear her home ! 
Over the murmuring salt sea's foam ; 
One who has fled from the war of life, 
From sorrow, pain, and the fever strife." 

Barry Cornwall. 

Bride ! upon thy marriage-day, 
When thy gems in rich array 
Made the glistening mirror seem 
As a star-reflecting stream ; 
When the clustering pearls lay fair 
Midst thy braids of sunny hair, 
And the white veil o'er thee streaming, 
Like a silvery halo gleaming, 



Mellow'd all that pomp and light 
Into something meekly bright ; 
Did the fluttering of thy breath 
Speak of joy or woe beneath 1 
And the hue that went and came 
O'er thy cheek, like wavering flame, 
Flow'd that crimson from th' unrest 
Or the gladness of thy breast 1 
—Who shall tell us 1 From thybo^er, 
Brightly didst thou pass that b<? ur ; 
With the many-glancing 1 oat, 
And the cheer *long the shore, 
And the wealth of summer flowers 
On thy fair head cast in showers, 
And the breath of song and flute, 
And the clarion's glad salute, 
Swiftly o'er the Adrian tide 
Wert thou borne in pomp, young bride ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 467 


Mirth and music, sun and sky, 


Shrouded in thy gleaming veil, 


Welcomed thee triumphantly ! 


Deaf to that wild funeral wail. 


Yet, perchance, a chastening thought 


Yet perchance a chastening thought 


In some deeper spirit wrought, 


In some deeper spirit wrought, 


Whispering, as untold it blent 


Whispering, while the stern, sad knell 


With the sounds of merriment — 


On the air's bright stillness fell — 


" From the home of childhood's glee, 


" From the power of chill and change 


From the days of laughter free, 


Souls to sever and estrange ; 


From the love of many years, 


From love's wane — a death in life, 


Thou art gone to cares and fears ; 


But to watch — a mortal strife ; 


To another path and guide, 


From the secret fevers known 


To a bosom yet untried ! 


To the burning heart alone, 


Bright one ! oh, there well may be 


Thou art fled — afar, away — 


Trembling midst our joy for thee !" 


Where these blights no more have sway ! 




Bright one ! oh, there well may be 


Bride ! when through the stately fane, 


Comfort midst our tears for thee ! " 


Circled with thy nuptial train, 




Midst the banners hung on high 




By thy warrior-ancestry, 

Midst those mighty fathers dead, 


THE ANCESTRAL SONG. 


In soft beauty thou wast led ; 
When before the shrine thy form 


" A long war disturb'd your mind — 
Here your perfect peace is sign'd ; 
'Tis now full tide 'twixt night and day- 


Quiver'd to some bosom-storm, 
When, like harp-strings with a sigh 


End your moan, and come away ! " 

Webster, " Duchess of Malfy." 


Breaking in mid-harmony, 


There were faint sounds of weeping ; fear and gloom 


On thy lip the murmurs low 


And midnight vigil in a stately room 


Died with love's unfinish'd vow ; 


Of Lusignan's old halls. Rich odours there 


When, like scatter'd rose-leaves, fled 


Fill'd the proud chamber as with Indian air, 


From thy cheek each tint of red, 


And soft light fell from lamps of silver, thrown 


And the light forsook thine eye, 


On jewels that with rainbow lustre shone 


And thy head sunk heavily ; 


Over a gorgeous couch : there emeralds gleam'd, 


Was that drooping but th' excess 


And deeper crimson from the ruby stream'd 


Of thy spirit's blessedness ? 


Than in the heart-leaf of the rose is set, 


Or did some deep feeling's might, 


Hiding from sunshine. Many a carcanet 


Folded in thy heart from sight, 


Starry with diamonds, many a burning chain 


With a sudden tempest-shower 


Of the red gold, sent forth a radiance vain, 


Earthward bear thy life's young flower 1 


And sad, and strange, the canopy beneath 


— Who shall tell us 1 On thy tongue 


Whose shadowy curtains, round a bed of death, 


Silence, and for ever, hung ! 


Hung drooping solemnly, — for there one lay, 


Never to thy lip and cheek 


Passing from all earth's glories fast away, 


Bush'd again the crimson streak ; 


Amidst those queenly treasures. They had been 


Never to thine eye return'd 


Gifts of her lord, from far-off Paynim lands ; 


That which there had beam'd and burn'd ! 


And for his sake, upon their orient sheen 


With the secret none might know, 


She had gazed fondly, and with faint, cold hands 


Wittx thy rapture or thy woe, 


Had press'd them to her languid heart once more, 


With thy marriage robe and wreath, 


Melting in childlike tears. But this was o'er — 


Thou wert fled, young bride of death ! 


Love's last, vain clinging unto life ; and now 


One, one lightning moment there 


A mist of dreams was hovering o'er her brow ; 


Struck down triumph to despair ; 


Her eye was fix'd, her spirit seem'd removed, 


Beauty, splendour, hope, and trust, 


Though not from earth, from all it knew or loved, 


Into darkness — terror — dust ! 


Far, far away ! Her handmaids watch'd around, 




In awe, that lent to each low midnight sound 


There were sounds of weeping o'er thee, 


A might, a mystery ; and the quivering light 


Bride ! as forth thy kindred bore thee, 


Of wind-sway'd lamps made spectral in their sight 

1 



468 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


The forms of buried beauty, sad, yet fair, 


And with her spirit wrapt in that wild lay, 


Gleaming along the walls with, braided hair, 


She pass'd, as twilight melts to night, away ! 


Long in the dust grown dim ; and she, too, saw, 




But with the spirit's eye of raptured awe, 




Those pictured shapes ! — a bright, yet solemn train 





Beckoning, they floated o'er her dreamy brain, 




Clothed in diviner hues ; while on her ear 




Strange voices fell, which none besides might hear, 


THE MAGIC GLASS. 


— Sweet, yet profoundly mournful, as the sigh 




Of winds o'er harp-strings through a midnight 

sky; 
And thus it seem'd, in that low, thrilling tone, 


" How lived, how loved, how died they ? " — Byron. 


" The dead ! the glorious dead ! — and shall they 


Th' ancestral shadows call'd away their own. 


rise ] [eyes ? 




Shall they look on thee with their proud bright 


Come, come, come ! 


Thou ask'st a fearful spell ! 


Long thy fainting soul hath yearn'd 


Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall, 


For the step that ne'er return'd ; 


What kingly vision shall obey my call ? 


Long thine anxious ear hath listen'd, 


The deep grave knows it well ! 


And thy watchful eye hath glisten'd 




With the hope, whose parting strife 


" Wouldst thou behold earth's conquerors ? shall 


Shook the flower-leaves from thy life. 


they pass 


Now the heavy day is done : 


Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass 


Home awaits thee, wearied one ! 


With triumph's long array 1 


Come, come, come ! 


Speak ! and those dwellers of the marble urn, 




Robed for the feast of victory, shall return, 


From the quenchless thoughts that burn 


As on their proudest day. 


In the seal'd heart's lonely urn ; 




From the coil of memory's chain 


" Or wouldst thou look upon the lords of song 1 


Wound about the throbbing brain; 


O'er the dark mirror that immortal throng 


From the veins of sorrow deep, 


Shall waft a solemn gleam ! 


Winding through the world of sleep ; 


Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows, 


From the haunted halls and bowers, 


Under the foliage of green laurel-boughs, 


Throng'd with ghosts of happier hours ! 


But silent as a dream." 


Come, come, come ! 






" Not these, mighty master ! — though their lays 


On our dim and distant shore 


Be unto man's free heart, and tears, and praise, 


Aching love is felt no more ! 


Hallow'd for evermore ! 


We have loved with earth's excess — 


And not the buried conquerors — let them sleep, 


Past is now that weariness ! 


And let the flowery earth her sabbaths keep 


We have wept, that weep not now — 


In joy, from shore to shore ! 


Calm is each once-beating brow ! 




We have known the dreamer's woes — 


" But, if the narrow house may so be moved, 


All is now one bright repose ! 


Call the bright shadows of the most beloved 


Come, come, come ! 


Back from their couch of rest ! 




That I may learn if their meek eyes be £H'd 


Weary heart that long hast bled, 


With peace, if human love hath ever still'd 


Languid spirit, drooping head, 


The yearning huma^i breast." 


Eestless memory, vain regret, 




Pining love whose light is set, 


" Away, fond youth ! — an idle quest is thine : 


Come away ! — 'tis hush'd, 'tis well, 


TJiese have no trophy, no memorial shrine ; 


Where by shadowy founts we dwell, 


I know not of their place ! 


All the fever-thirst is still'd, 


Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow, 


All the air with peace is fill'd, — 


Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and 


Come, come, come ! 


Have pass'd, and left no trace. [low, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 469 


" Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills, 


With a low and lovely tone, 


And the wild sounds of melancholy rills, 


In its thrilling power alone ; 


Their covering turf may bloom ; 


And thy lyre's deep silvery string, 


But ne'er hath fame made relics of its flowers — 


Touch'd as by a breeze's wing, 


Never hath pilgrim sought their household bowers, 


Murmurs tremblingly at first, 


Or poet hail'd their tomb." 


Ere the tide of rapture burst. 


" Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell ! 


All the spirit of thy sky 


Some voice, perchance, by those lone graves may 


Now hath lit thy large dark eye, 


That which I pine to know ! [tell 


And thy cheek a flush hath caught 


I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep, 


From the joy of kindled thought ; 


Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep, 


And the burning words of song 


Records of joy and woe." 


From thy lip flow fast and strong, 




With a rushing stream's delight 




In the freedom of its might. 




Radiant daughter of the sun ! 




Now thy living wreath is won. 


CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL. 


Crown'd of Rome ! — oh ! art thou not 




Happy in that glorious lot 1 — 


" Les femmes doivent penser qu'il est dans cette carriere bien peu 


Happier, happier far than thou, 


de sorte qui puissent valoir la plus obscure vie d'une femme aimee 


et d'une mere heureuse." Madame de Stael. 


With the laurel on thy brow, 




She that makes the humblest hearth 


Daughter of th' Italian heaven ! 


Lovely but to one on earth ! 


Thou to whom its fires are given, 




Joyously thy car hath roll'd 




Where the conqueror's pass'd of old ; 


THE RUIN. 


And the festal sun that shone 




O'er three hundred triumphs gone, 1 


" Oh ! 'tis the heart that magnifies this life, 
Making a truth and beauty of its own." 


Makes thy day of glory bright 


Wordsworth. 


With a shower of golden light. 


" Birth has gladden'd it : death has sanctified it." 




Guesses at Truth. 


Now thou tread'st th' ascending road 


No dower of storied song is thine, 


Freedom's foot so proudly trode ; 


desolate abode ! 


While, from tombs of heroes borne, 


Forth from thy gates no glittering line 


From the dust of empire shorn, 


Of lance and spear hath flow'd. 


Flowers upon thy graceful head, 


Banners of knighthood have not flung 


Chaplets of all hues, are shed, 


Proud drapery o'er thy walls, 


In a soft and rosy rain, 


Nor bugle-notes to battle rung 


Touch'd with many a gem-like stain. 


Through thy resounding halls. 


Thou hast gain'd the summit now ! 


Nor have rich bowers of pleasaunce here 


Music hails thee from below ; 


By courtly hands been dress'd, 


Music, whose rich notes might stir 


For princes, from the chase of deer, 


Ashes of the sepulchre ; 


Under green leaves to rest : 


Shaking with victorious notes 


Only some rose, yet lingering bright 


All the bright air as it floats. 


Beside thy casements lone, 


Well may woman's heart beat high 


Tells where the spirit of delight 


Unto that proud harmony ! 


Hath dwelt, and now is gone. 


Now afar it rolls — it dies — 


Yet minstrel-tale of harp and sword, 


And thy voice is heard to rise 


And sovereign beauty's lot, 




House of quench'd light and silent board ! 


1 " The trebly hundred triumphs."— Byron. 


For me thou needest not. 



470 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


It is enough to know that here, 


Where, in its ever-haunting thirst 


Where thoughtfully I stand, 


For draughts of purer day, 


Sorrow and love, and hope and fear, 


Man's soul, with fitful strength, hath burst 


Have link'd one kindred band. 


The clouds that wrapt its way ? 


Thou bindest me with mighty spells ! 


Holy to human nature seems 


— A solemnising breath, 


The long-forsaken spot — 


A presence all around thee dwells 


To deep affections, tender dreams, 


Of human life and death. 


Hopes of a brighter lot ! 


I need but pluck yon garden flower 


Therefore in silent reverence here, 


From where the wild weeds rise, 


Hearth of the dead ! I stand, 


To wake, with strange and sudden power, 


Where joy and sorrow, smile and tear, 


A thousand sympathies. 


Have link'd one household band. 


Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth ! 





Deserted now by all ! 




Voices at eve here met in mirth 


THE MINSTER 


Which eve may ne'er recall. 




Youth's buoyant step, and woman's tone, 


Speak low ! The place is holy to the breath 


And childhood's laughing glee, 


Of awful harmonies, of whisper'd prayer : 


And song and prayer, have all been known, 


Tread lightly ! — for the sanctity of death 


Hearth of the dead ! to thee. 


Broods with a voiceless influence on the air, 




Stern, yet serene ! — a reconciling spell, 


Thou hast heard blessings fondly pour'd 


Each troubled billow of the soul to quell. 


Upon the infant head, 




As if in every fervent word 


Leave me to linger silently awhile ! 


The living soul were shed ; 


— Not for the light that pours its fervid streams 


Thou hast seen partings, such as bear 


Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle, 


The bloom from life away — 


Kindling old banners into haughty gleams, 


Alas ! for love in changeful air, 


Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb 


Where naught beloved can stay ! 


Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom : 


Here, by the restless bed of pain, 


Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing, 


The vigil hath been kept, 


Mighty as forest-sounds when winds are high ; 


Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain, 


Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing 


Burst forth on eyes that wept ; 


Through incense-mists their sainted pageantry,— 


Here hath been felt the hush, the gloom, 


Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and power, 


The breathless influence, shed 


Yet not for these I ask one lingering hour. 


Through the dim dwelling, from the room 




Wherein reposed the dead. 


But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord 




Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound ; 


The seat left void, the missing face, 


Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have 


Have here been mark'd and mourn'd, 


pour'd 


And time hath fill'd the vacant place, 


Their anguish forth, are with me and around; 


And gladness hath return'd ; 


I look back on the pangs, the burning tears, 


Till from the narrowing household chain 


Known to these altars of a thousand years. 


The links dropp'd one by one ! 




And homewards hither, o'er the main, 


Send up a murmur from the dust, Eemorse ! 


Came the spring-birds alone. 


That here hast bow'd with ashes on thy head ; 




And thou, still battling with the tempest's force— 


Is there not cause, then — cause for thought, 


Thou, whoso bright spirit through all time has 


Fix'd eye and lingering tread, 


bled— 


Where, with their thousand mysteries fraught, 


Speak, wounded Love ! if penance here, or prayer, 


Even lowliest hearts have bled 1 


Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



471 



No voice, no breath ! — of conflicts past, no trace ! 

— Doth not this hush give answer to my quest 1 
Surely the dread religion of the place 

By every grief hath made its might confest ! — 
Oh ! that within my heart I could but keep 
Holy to heaven, a spot thus pure, and still, and deep ! 



THE SONG OF NIGHT. 1 

" O night, 
And storm, and darkness ! ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength !" Byron. 

I come to thee, Earth ! 
With all my gifts ! — for every flower sweet dew 
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew 

The glory of its birth. 

Not one which glimmering lies 
Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves, 
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives 

A spirit of fresh dyes. 

I come with every star ; 
Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track, 
Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back, 

Mirrors of worlds afar. 

I come with peace, — I shed 
Sleep through thy wood-walks, o'er the honey-bee, 
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee, 

The hyacinth's meek head. 

On my own heart I lay 
The weary babe ; and sealing with a breath 
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath 

The shadowing lids to play. 

I come with mightier things ! 
Who calls me silent % I have many tones — 
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans, 

Borne on my sweeping wings. 

I waft them not alone 
From the deep organ of the forest shades, 
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades 

Till the bright day is done ; 

But in the human breast 
A thousand still small voices I awake, 

1 Suggested by Thorwaldsen's bas-relief of Night, repre- 
sented under the form of a winged female figure, with two 



infants asleep in her arms. 



Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake 
The mantle of its rest. 

I bring them from the past : 
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn, 
From crush'd affections, which, though long o'er- 

Make their tones heard at last, [borne, 

I bring them from the tomb : 
O'er the sad couch of late repentant love 
They pass — though low as murmurs of a dove — 

Like trumpets through the gloom. 

I come with all my train : 
Who calls me lonely % Hosts around me tread, 
The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead — 

Phantoms of heart and brain ! 

Looks from departed eyes, 
These are my lightnings ! — fill'd with anguish vain, 
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain, 

They smite with agonies. 

I, that with soft control, 
Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song, 
I am the avenging one ! — the arm'd, the strong — 

The searcher of the soul ! 

I, that shower dewy light [pest birth 
Through slumbering leaves, bring storms — the tem- 
Of memory, thought, remorse ! Be holy, Earth ! 

I am the solemn Night ! 2 

[The howling of the wind at night had a very peculiar 
effect on her nerves — nothing in the least approaching to the 
sensation of fear, as few were more exempt from that class of 
alarms usually called nervous ; but working upon her ima- 
gination to a degree which was always succeeded by a reaction 
of fatigue and exhaustion. The solemn influences thus mys- 
teriously exercised are alluded to in many of her poems, par- 
ticularly " The Song of the Night," and " The Voice of the 
Wind." — Memoir, p. 84.] 



THE STOEM- PAINTER IN HIS DUNGEON. 

" Where of ye, O tempests, is the goal ? 
Are ye like those that shake the human breast ? 
Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest ?" 

Childe Hakold. 

Midnight, and silence deep ! 
— The air is fill'd with sleep, 
With the stream's whisper, and the citron's breath ; 

2 Pietro Mulier, called II Tempesta, from his surprising 
pictures of storms. "His compositions," says Laim, "in- 
spire a real horror, presenting to our eyes death-devoted ships 



472 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


The fix'd and solemn stars 


But I, your strong compeer, 


Gleam through my dungeon-bars — 


Call, summon, wait you here — 


Wake, rushing winds ! this breezeless calm is 


Answer, my spirit ! — answer, storm and night ! 


death ! 




Ye watch-fires of the skies ! 





The stillness of your eyes 




Looks too intensely through my troubled soul ; 


THE TWO VOICES. 


I feel this weight of rest 




An earth-load on my breast — 




Wake, rushing winds, awake ! and, dark clouds, roll ! 


Two solemn Voices, in a funeral strain, 




Met as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain 


I am your own, your child, 


Meet in the sky : 


ye, the fierce, and wild, 


" Thou art gone hence ! " one sang ; " our light is 


And kingly tempests ! — will ye not arise ? 


flown, 


Hear the bold spirit's voice, 


Our beautiful, that seem'd too much our own 


That knows not to rejoice 


Ever to die ! 


But in the peal of your strong harmonies. 






"Thou art gone hence ! — our joyous hills among 


By sounding ocean-waves, 


Never again to pour thy soul in song, 


And dim Calabrian caves, 


When spring-flowers rise ! 


And flashing torrents, I have been your mate ; 


Never the friend's familiar step to meet 


And with the rocking pines 


With loving laughter, and the welcome sweet 


Of the olden Apennines, 


Of thy glad eyes." 


In your dark path stood fearless and elate. 






"Thou art gone home, gone home!" then, high 


Your lightnings were as rods, 


and clear, 


That smote the deep abodes 


Warbled that other Voice. " Thou hast no tear 


Of thought and vision — and the stream gush'd free ; 


Again to shed ; 


Come ! that my soul again 


Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain ; 


May swell to burst its chain — 


Never, weigh'd down by memory's clouds, again 


Bring me the music of the sweeping sea ! 


To bow thy head. 


Within me dwells a flame, 


" Thou art gone home ! early crown'd and blest ! 


An eagle caged and tame, 


Where could the love of that deep heart find rest 


Till call'd forth by the harping of the blast ; 


With aught below 1 


Then is its triumph's hour, 


Thou must have seen rich dream by dream decay, 


It springs to sudden power, 


All the bright rose-leaves drop from life away — 


As mounts the billow o'er the quivering mast. 


Thrice bless'd to go ! " 


Then, then, the canvass o'er, 


Yet sigh'd again that breeze-like Voice of grief — 


With hurried hand I pour 


" Thou art gone hence ! Alas, that aught so brief 


The lava-waves and gusts of my own soul ! 


So loved should be ! 


Kindling to fiery life 


Thou takest our summer hence ! — the flower, the 


Dreams, worlds, of pictured strife — ■ 


The music of our being, all in one, [tone, 


Wake, rushing winds, awake ! and, dark clouds, roll ! 


Depart with thee ! 


Wake, rise ! the reed may bend, 


" Fair form, young spirit, morning vision fled ! 


The shivering leaf descend, 


Canst thou be of the dead, the awful dead — 


The forest branch give way before your might ; 


The dark unknown 1 



overtaken by tempests and darkness— fired by lightning— 


in Genoa, the pictures which he painted in his dungeon were 


now rising on the mountain-wave, and again submerged in 


marked by additional power and gloom. — See Lanzi's History 


the abyss of ocean." During an imprisonment of five years 


of Painting, translated by Roscoe. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



473 



Yes ! to the dwelling where no footsteps fall, 
Never again to light up hearth or hall, 
Thy smile is gone ! " 

"Home, home!" once more the exulting Voice 

arose : 
" Thou art gone home ! — from that divine repose 

Never to roam ! 
Never to say farewell, to weep in vain, 
To read of change, in eyes beloved, again — 

Thou art gone home ! 

" By the bright waters now thy lot is cast — 
Joy for thee, happy friend ! thy bark hath past 

The rough sea's foam ! 
Now the long yearnings of thy soul are still'd, 
Home ! home ! — thy peace is won, thy heart is fill'd : 

Thou art gone home ! 



THE PARTING SHIR 



" A glittering ship, that hath the plain 
. Of ocean for her own domain." Wordsworth. 



Go, in thy glory, o'er the ancient sea, 

Take with thee gentle winds thy sails to swell; 

Sunshine and joy upon thy streamers be, 
Fare thee well, bark ! farewell ! 

Proudly the flashing billow thou hast cleft, 

The breeze yet follows thee with cheer and song; 

Who now of storms hath dream or memory left 1 ? 
And yet the deep is strong ! 

But go thou triumphing, while still the smiles 
Of summer tremble on the water's breast ! 

Thou shalt be greeted by a thousand isles, 
In lone, wild beauty drest. 

To thee a welcome breathing o'er the tide, 
The genii groves of Araby shall pour ; 

Waves that enfold the pearl shall bathe thy side, 
On the old Indian shore. 

Oft shall the shadow of the palm-tree lie 
O'er glassy bays wherein thy sails are furl'd, 

And its leaves whisper, as the winds sweep by, 
Tales of the elder world. 

Oft shall the burning stars of southern skies, 
On the mid-ocean see thee chain'd in sleep, 

A lonely home for human thoughts and ties, 
Between the heavens and deep. 



Blue seas that roll on gorgeous coasts renown'd, 
By night shall sparkle where thy prow makes way; 
Strange creatures of the abyss that none may 
In thy broad wake shall play. [sound, 

From hills unknown, in mingled joy and fear, 
Free dusky tribes shall pour, thy flag to mark; — 

Blessings go with thee on thy lone career ! 
Hail, and farewell, thou bark ! 

A long farewell ! Thou wilt not bring us back 
All whom thou bearest far from home and 
hearth : 

Many are thine, whose steps no more shall track 
Their own sweet native earth ! 

Some wilt thou leave beneath the plantain's shade, 
Where through the foliage Indian suns look 
bright ; 

Some in the snows of wintry regions laid, 
By the cold northern light. 

And some, far down below the sounding wave, 
Still shall they lie, though tempests o'er them 
sweep ; 

Never may flower be strewn above their grave, 
Never may sister weep ! 

And thou, the billow's queen — even thy proud form 
On our glad sight no more perchance may swell ; 

Yet God alike is in the calm and storm — 
Fare thee well, bark ! farewell ! 



THE LAST TREE OF THE FOREST. 

Whisper, thou Tree, thou lonely Tree, 
One, where a thousand stood ! 

Well might proud tales be told by thee, 
Last of the solemn wood ! 

Dwells there no voice amidst thy boughs, 
With leaves yet darkly green 1 

Stillness is round, and noontide glows — 
Tell us what thou hast seen. 

" I have seen the forest-shadows lie 
Where men now reap the corn ; 

I have seen the kingly chase rush by 
Through the deep 'glades at morn. 

" With the glance of many a gallant spear, 
And the wave of many a plume, 



474 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


And the bounding of a hundred deer, 




It has lit the woodland's gloom. 


THE STEEAMS. 


" I have seen the knight and his train ride past, 


" The power, the beauty, and the majesty, 


"With his banner borne on high : 


That had their haunts in dale or piny mountain, 


° 


Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring, 


O'er all my leaves there was brightness cast 


Or chasms and watery depths ; all those have vanish'd ! 


From his gleaming panoply. 


They live no longer in the faith of heaven, 
But still the heart doth need a language ! " 




Colekidge's " Wallenstein." 


" The pilgrim at my feet hath laid 




His palm-branch midst the flowers, 


Ye have been holy, founts and floods ! 


And told his beads, and meekly pray'd, 


Ye of the ancient and solemn woods, 


Kneeling, at vesper hours. 


Ye that are born of the valleys deep, 




With the water-flowers on your breast asleep, 


" And the merry men of wild and glen, 


And ye that gush from the sounding caves — 


In the green array they wore, 


Hallow'd have been your waves. 


Have feasted here, with the red wine's cheer, 




And the hunter's song of yore. 


Hallow'd by man, in his dreams of old, 




Unto beings not of this mortal mould — 


" And the minstrel, resting in my shade, 


Viewless, and deathless, and wondrous powers, 


Hath made the forest ring 


Whose voice he heard in his lonely hours, 


With the lordly tales of the high Crusade, 


And sought with its fancied sound to still 


Once loved by chief and king. 


The heart earth could not fill. 


" But now the noble forms are gone 


Therefore the flowers of bright summers gone, 


That walk'd the earth of old ; 


O'er your sweet waters, ye streams ! were thrown; 


The soft wind has a mournful tone, 


Thousands of gifts to the sunny sea 


The sunny light looks cold. 


Have ye swept along, in your wanderings free, 




And thrill'd to the murmur of many a vow — 


" There is no glory left us now 


Where all is silent now ! 


Like the glory with the dead ; 




I would that, where they slumber low, 


Nor seems it strange that the heart hath been 


My latest leaves were shed ! " 


So link'd in love to your margins green ; 




That still, though ruin'd, your early shrines 


thou dark tree, thou lonely tree, 


In beauty gleam through the southern vines, 


That mournest for the past ! 


And the ivied chapels of colder skies 


A peasant's home in thy shades I see, 


On your wild banks arise. 


Embower'd from ever blast. 






For the loveliest scenes of the glowing earth 


A lovely and a mirthful sound 


Are those, bright streams ! where your springs have 


Of laughter meets mine ear ; 


birth ; 


For the poor man's children sport around 


Whether their cavern'd murmur fills, 


On the turf, with naught to fear. 


With a tone of plaint, the hollow hills, 




Or the glad sweet laugh of their healthful flow 


And roses lend that cabin's wall 


Is heard midst the hamlets low. 


A happy summer-glow : 




And the open door stands free to all, 


Or whether ye gladden the desert sands 


For it recks not of a foe. 


With a joyous music to pilgrim bands, 




And a flash from under some ancient rock, [flock, 


And the village bells are on the breeze 


Where a shepherd king might have watch'd his 


That stirs thy leaf, dark tree ! 


Where a few lone palm-trees lift their heads, 


How can I mourn, midst things like these, 


And a green acacia spreads. 


For the stormy past, with thee 1 






Or whether, in bright old lands renown'd, 




The laurels thrill to your first-born sound, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



475 



And the shadow, flung from the Grecian pine, 
Sweeps with the breeze o'er your gleaming line, 
And the tall reeds whisper to your waves, 
Beside heroic graves. 

Voices and lights of the lonely place ! 
By the freshest fern your path we trace ; 
By the brightest cups on the emerald moss, 
Whose fairy goblets the turf emboss ; 
By the rainbow-glancing of insect wings, 
In a thousand mazy rings. 

There sucks the bee, for the richest flowers 
Are all your own through the summer hours ; 
There the proud stag his fair image knows, 
Traced on your glass beneath alder-boughs ; 
And the halcyon's breast, like the skies array'd, 
Gleams through the willow shade. 

But the wild sweet tales that with elves and fays 
Peopled your banks in the olden days, 
And the memory left by departed love 
To your antique founts in glen and grove, 
And the glory born of the poet's dreams — 

These are your charms, bright streams ! 

Now is the time of your flowery rites 
Gone by with its dances and young delights : 
From your marble urns ye have burst away, 
From your chapel-cells to the laughing day ; 
Low he your altars with moss o'ergrown, 
And the woods again are lone. 

Yet holy still be your living springs, 
Haunts of all gentle and gladsome things ! 
Holy, to converse with nature's lore, 
That gives the worn spirit its youth once more, 
And to silent thoughts of the love divine, 
Making the heart a shrine ! 



THE VOICE OF THE WIND. 

" There is nothing in the wide world so like the voice of a spirit." 

Gray's " Letters." 

Oh ! many a voice is thine, thou Wind ! full many 
a voice is thine ! 

From every scene thy wing o'ersweeps thoubear'st 
a sound and sign ; 

A minstrel wild and strong thou art, with a mas- 
tery all thine own, 

And the spirit is thy harp, Wind ! that gives 
the answering tone. 



Thou hast been across red fields of war, where 

shiver'd helmets lie, 
And thou bringest thence the thrilling note of a 

clarion in the sky ; 
A rustling of proud banner-folds, a peal of stormy 

drums, — 
All these are in thy music met, as when a leader 

comes. 

Thou hast been o'er solitary seas, and from their 

wastes brought back 
Each noise of waters that awoke in the mystery 

of thy track — 
The chime of low, soft, southern waves on some 

green palmy shore, 
The hollow roll of distant surge, the gather'd 

billows' roar. 

Thou art come from forests dark and deep, thou 

mighty rushing Wind ! 
And thou bearest all their unisons in one full swell 

combined ; 
The restless pines, the moaning stream, all hidden 

things and free, 
Of the dim, old, sounding wilderness, have lent 

their soul to thee. 

Thou art come from cities lighted up for the con- 
queror passing by, 

Thou art wafting from their streets a sound of 
haughty revelry ; 

The rolling of triumphant wheels, the harpings in 
the hall, [fall. 

The far-off shout of multitudes, are in thy rise and 

Thou art come from kingly tombs and shrines, 

from ancient minsters vast, 
Through the dark aisles of a thousand years thy 

lonely wing hath pass'd ; 
Thou hast caught the anthem's billowy swell, the 

stately dirge's tone, 
For a chief, with sword, and shield, and helm, to 

his place of slumber gone. 

Thou art come from long-forsaken homes, wherein 

our young days flew, 
Thou hast found sweet voices fingering there, the 

loved, the kind, the true ; 
Thou callest back those melodies, though now all 

changed and fled — 
Be still, be still, and haunt us not with music from 

the dead ! 
Are all these notes in thee, wild wind? these many 

notes in thee ? 



476 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Far in our own unfathom'd souls their fount must 


And the image of that sire, who died 


surely be ; 


In his noonday of renown — 


Yes! buried, but unsleeping, there thought watches, 


These had a power unto which the pride 


memory lies, 


Of fiery life bow'd down. 


From whose deep urn the tones are pour'd through 




all earth's harmonies. 


And a spirit from his early years 




Came back o'er his thoughts to move, 





Till his eye was fill'd with memory's tears, 


THE VIGIL OF ARMS. 1 


And his heart with childhood's love ! 




And he look'd, with a change in his softening glance, 


A sounding step was heard by night 


To the armour o'er the grave — 


In a church where the mighty slept, 


For there they hung, the shield and lance, 


As a mail-clad youth, till morning's light, 


And the gauntlet of the brave. 


Midst the tombs his vigil kept. 




He walk'd in dreams of power and fame, 


And the sword of many a field was there, 


He lifted a proud bright eye, 


With its cross for the hour of need, 


For the hours were few that withheld his name 


When the knight's bold war-cry hath sunk in prayer, 


From the roll of chivalry. 


And the spear is a broken reed ! 




— Hush ! did a breeze through the armour sigh 1 


Down the moonlit aisles he paced alone, 


Did the folds of the banner shake 1 


With a free and stately tread ; 


Not so ! — from the tomb's dark mystery 


And the floor gave back a muffled tone 


There seem'd a voice to break ! 


From the couches of the dead : 




The silent many that round him lay, 


He had heard that voice bid clarions blow, 


The crown'd and helm'd that were, 


He had caught its last blessing's breath — 


The haiighty chiefs of the war array — 


'Twas the same — but its awful sweetness now 


Each in his sepulchre ! 


Had an under-tone of death ! 




And it said — " The sword hath conquer'd kings, 


But no dim warning of time or fate 


And the spear through realms hath pass'd ; 


That youth's flush'd hopes could chill ; 


But the cross, alone, of all these things, 


He moved through the trophies of buried state 


Might aid me at the last." 


With each proud pulse throbbing still. 




He heard, as the wind through the chancel sung, 




A swell of the trumpet's breath ; 




He look'd to the banners on high that hung, 




And not to the dust beneath. 


THE HEART OF BRUCE IN MELROSE 




ABBEY. 


And a royal masque of splendour seem'd 




Before him to unfold ; 


Heart ! that didst press forward still, 2 


Through the solemn arches on it stream'd, 


Where the trumpet's note rang shrill, 


With many a gleam of gold : 


Where the knightly swords were crossing, 


There were crested knight, and gorgeous dame, 


And the plumes like sea-foam tossing, 


Glittering athwart the gloom ; 


Leader of the charging spear, 


And he follow'd, till his bold step came 


Fiery heart ! — and liest thou here ? 


To his warrior-father's tomb. 


May this narrow spot inurn 




Aught that so could beat and burn ? 


But there the still and shadowy might 


Heart ! that lovedst the clarion's blast, 


Of the monumental stone, 


Silent is thy place at last ; 


And the holy sleep of the soft lamp's light 


Silent — save when early bird 


That over its quiet shone, 


Sings where once the mass was heard ; 


1 The candidate for knighthood was under the necessity 


2 " Now pass thou forward, as thou wert wont, and 


of keeping watch, the night before his inauguration, in a 


Douglas will follow thee or die!" — with these words Douglas 


church, and completely armed. This was called "the Vigil of 


threw from him the heart of Bruce into mid-battle against 


Arms." 


, the Moors of Spain. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



477 



Silent — save when breeze's moan 
Comes through flowers or fretted stone ; 
And the wild-rose waves around thee, 
And the long dark grass hath bound thee, 
— Sleep'st thou, as the swain might sleep, 
In his nameless valley deep 1 

No ! brave heart ! though cold and lone, 
Kingly power is yet thine own ! 
Feel I not thy spirit brood 
O'er the whispering solitude ?- 
Lo ! at one high thought of thee, 
Fast they rise, the bold, the free, 
Sweeping past thy lowly bed, 
With a mute, yet stately tread. 
Shedding their pale armour's light 
Forth upon the breathless night, 
Bending every warlike plume 
In the prayer o'er saintly tomb. 

Is the noble Douglas nigh, 

Arm'd to follow thee, or die ] 

Now, true heart ! as thou wert wont 

Pass thou to the peril's front ! 

Where the banner-spear is gleaming, 

And the battle's red wine streaming, 

Till the Paynim quail before thee, 

Till the cross wave proudly o'er thee. 

— Dreams ! the falling of a leaf 

Wins me from their splendours brief; 

Dreams, yet bright ones ! scorn them not, 

Thou that seek'st the holy spot ; 

Nor, amidst its lone domain, 

Call the faith in relics vain ! 



NATURE'S FAREWELL. 

"The beautiful is vanish'd,and returns not." 

Coleridge's " Wallenstein." 

A youth rode forth from his childhood's home, 
Through the crowded paths of the world to roam ; 
And the green leaves whisper'd, as he pass'd, 
" Wherefore, thou dreamer ! away so fast ? 

"Knew'st thou with what thou are parting here, 
Long wouldst thou linger in doubt and fear ; 
Thy heart's light laughter, thy sunny hours, 
Thou hast left in our shades with the spring's 
wild flowers. 

" Under the arch by our mingling made, 
Thou and thy brother have gaily play'd ; 



Ye may meet again where ye roved of yore, 
But as ye have met there — oh ! never more !" 

On rode the youth — and the boughs among, 
Thus the free birds o'er his pathway sung : 
" Wherefore so fast unto life away 1 
Thou art leaving for ever thy joy in our lay ! 

" Thou may'st come to the summer woods again, 
And thy heart have no echo to greet their strain; 
Afar from the foliage its love will dwell — 
A change must pass o'er thee. Farewell, farewell !" 

On rode the youth — and the founts and streams 
Thus mingled a voice with his joyous dreams : 
"We have been thy playmates through many a day, 
Wherefore thus leave us 1 — oh ! yet delay ! 

" Listen but once to the sound of our mirth ! 
For thee 'tis a melody passing from earth; 
Never again wilt thou find in its flow 
The peace it could once on thy heart bestow. 

"Thou wilt visit the scenes of thy childhood's glee, 
With the breath of the world on thy spirit free ; 
Passion and sorrow its depths will have stirr'd, 
And the singing of waters be vainly heard. 

"Thou wilt bear in our gladsome laugh no part — 
What should it do for a burning heart 1 
Thou wilt bring to the banks of our freshest rill, 
Thirst which no fountain on earth may still. 

"Farewell! — when thou comest again to thine own, 
Thou wilt miss from our music its loveliest tone; 
Mournfully true is the tale we tell — 
Yet on, fiery dreamer ! farewell, farewell !" 

And a something of gloom on his spirit weigh'd 
As he caught the last sounds of his native shade; 
But he knew not, till may a bright spell broke, 
How deep were the oracles Nature spoke ! 



THE BEINGS OF THE MIND. 



" The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
Essentially immortal, they create 
And multiply in us a brighter ray, 
And more beloved existence ; that which Fate 
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
Of mortal bondage." Byron. 

Come to me with your triumphs and your woes, 
Ye forms, to life by glorious poets brought ! 



478 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



I sit alone with flowers, and vernal boughs. 

In the deep shadow of a voiceless thought ; 
Midst the glad music of the spring alone, 
And sorrowful for visions that are gone ! 

Come to me ! make your thrilling whispers heard, 
Ye, by those masters of the soul endow'd 

With life, and love, and many a burning word, 
That bursts from grief like lightning from a cloud, 

And smites the heart, till all its chords reply, 

As leaves make answer when the wind sweeps by. 

Come to me ! visit my dim haunt i — the sound 
Of hidden springs is in the grass beneath ; 

The stock-dove's note above ; and all around, 
The poesy that with the violet's breath 

Floats through the air, in rich and sudden streams, 

Mingling, like music, with the soul's deep dreams. 

Friends, friends ! — for such to my lone heart ye are- 
Unchanging ones ! from whose immortal eyes 

The glory melts not as a waning star, 

And the sweet kindness never, never dies ; 

Bright children of the bard ! o'er this green dell 

Pass once again, and light it with your spell ! 

Imogen ! fair Fidele ! meekly blending, 
In patient grief, " a smiling with a sigh ; " 1 

And thou, Cordelia ! faithful daughter, tending 
That sire, an outcast to the bitter sky ; 

Thou of the soft low voice ! — thou art not gone ! 

Still breathes for me its faint and flute-like tone. 

And come to me !— sing me thy willow-strain, 
Sweet Desdemona ! with the sad surprise 

In thy beseeching glance, where still, though vain, 
Undimm'd, unquenchable affection lies ; 

Come, bowing thy young head to wrong and scorn, 

As a frail hyacinth by showers o'erborne. 

And thou, too, fair Ophelia ! flowers are here, 
That well might win thy footstep to the spot — 

Pale cowslips, meet for maiden's early bier, 
And pansies for sad thoughts, 2 — but needed not! 

Come with thy wreaths, and all the love and light 

In that wild eye still tremulously bright. 

And Juliet, vision of the south ! enshrining 
All gifts that unto its rich heaven belong ; 

The glow, the sweetness, in its rose combining, 
The soul its nightingales pour forth in song, 



1 " Nobly he yokes 

A smiling with a sigh."- 



-Cymbelinb. 



Thou, making death deep joy ! — but could'st thou 

die? 
No ! — thy young love hath immortality ! 

From earth's bright faces fades the light of morn, 
From earth's glad voices drops the joyous tone; 

But ye, the children of the soul, were born 
Deathless, and for undying love alone ; 

And, ye beautiful ! 'tis well, how well, 

In the soul's world, with you, where change is 
not, to dwell ! 



THE LYRE'S LAMENT. 

" A large lyre hung in an opening of the rock, and gave forth its 
melancholy music to the wind — but no human being was to be seen." 

Salathiel. 

A deep-toned lyre hung murmuring 

To the wild wind of the sea ; 
" melancholy wind," it sigh'd, 

"What would thy breath with me ? 

" Thou canst not wake the spirit 

That in me slumbering lies, 
Thou strikest not forth th' electric fire 

Of buried melodies. 

" Wind of the dark sea- waters ! 

Thou dost but sweep my strings 
Into wild gusts of mournfulness, 

With the rushing of thy wings. 

" But the spell — the gift — the lightning — ■ 

Within my frame conceal' d, 
Must I moulder on the rock away 

With their triumphs unreveal'd 1 

" I have power, high power, for freedom 

To wake the burning soul ! 
I have sounds that through the ancient hills 

Like a torrent's voice might roll. 

" I have pealing notes of victory 

That might welcome kings from war ; 

I have rich, deep tones to send the wail 
For a hero's death afar. 



I have chords to lift the paean 
From the temple to the sky, 



Here's pansies for you— that's for thoughts." 

Hamlet. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 479 


Full as the forest-unisons 


Peace ! Within his chamber 


When sweeping winds are high. 


Low the mighty lies — 




With a cloud of dreams on his noble brow, 


" And love — for love's lone sorrow 


And a wandering in his eyes. 


I have accents that might swell 




Through the summer air with the rose's breath, 


Sing, sing for him, the lord of song — for him, 


Or the violet's faint farewell : 


whose rushing strain 




In mastery o'er the spirit sweeps, like a strong 


" Soft — spiritual — mournful — 


wind o'er the main ! 


Sighs in each note enshrined — 


Whose voice lives deep in burning hearts, for ever 


But who shall call that sweetness forth 1 


there to dwell, 


Thou can'st not, ocean- wind ! 


As full-toned oracles are shrined in a temple's 




holiest cell. 


" I pass without my glory, 




Forgotten I decay — 


Yes ! for him, the victor, 


Where is the touch to give me life 1 


Sing — but low, sing low ! 


— Wild, fitful wind, away !" 


A soft, sad miserere chant 




For a soul about to go ! 


So sigh'd the broken music 




That in gladness had no part — 


The sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o'er his way, 


How like art thou, neglected Lyre ! 


Where the old three hundred triumphs moved, a 


To many a human heart ! 


flood of golden day ; 




Streaming through every haughty arch of the 




Csesars' past renown- 


TASSO'S CORONATION. 1 


Bring forth, in that exulting light, the conqueror 




for his crown ! 


A crown of victory • a triumphal song ! 




Oh ' call some friend, upon whose pitying heart 
The weary one may calmly sink to rest ; 


Shut the proud, bright sunshine 


Let some kind voice, beside his lowly couch, 


From the fading sight ! 


Pour the last prayer for mortal agony ! 


There needs no ray by the bed of death, 


A trumpet's note is in the sky, in the glorious 


Save the holy taper's light. 


Roman sky, 




Whose dome hath rung, so many an age, to the 


The wreath is twined — the way is strewn — the 


voice of victory ; 


lordly train are met — 


There is crowding to the Capitol, the imperial 


The streets are hung with coronals — why stays 


streets along, 


the minstrel yet 1 


For again a conqueror must be crown'd — a kingly 


Shout ! as an army shouts in joy around a royal 


child of song : 


chief — 




Bring forth the bard of chivalry, the bard of love 


Yet his chariot lingers, 


and grief ! 


Yet around his home 




Broods a shadow silently, 


Silence ! forth we bring him, 


Midst the joy of Rome. 


In his last array ; 




From love and grief the freed, the flown — 


A thousand, thousand laurel boughs are waving 


Way for the bier ! — make way ! 


wide and far, 




To shed out their triumphal gleams around his 





rolling car ; 




A thousand haunts of olden gods have given their 


THE BETTER LAND. 


wealth of flowers, 




To scatter o'er his path of fame bright hues in gem- 


" I hear thee speak of the better land, 


like showers. 


Thou call'st its children a happy band : 


1 Tasso died at Rome on the day before that appointed for 


Mother ! oh, where is that radiant shore 'i 


his coronation in the Capitol, Shall we not seek it, and weep no more 1 



480 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Is it where the flower of the orange blows, 
And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle 
boughs V 
— " Not there, not there, my child ! " 

" Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, 
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies 1 
Or midst the green islands of glittering seas, 
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, 
And strange, bright birds on their starry wings 
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ]" 
— " Not there, not there, my child ! " 

" Is it far away, in some region old, 
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold 1 — 
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, 
And the diamond lights up the secret mine, 
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand %— 
Is it there, sweet mother ! that better land V 
— " Not there, not there, my child ! 

" Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy ! 
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ; 
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair — 
Sorrow and death may not enter there : 
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, 
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, 
It is there, it is there, my child ! " 



THE WOUNDED EAGLE. 

Eagle ! this is not thy sphere ! 
Warrior-bird ! what seek'st thou here ? 
Wherefore by the fountain's brink 
Doth thy royal pinion sink 1 
Wherefore on the violet's bed 
Lay'st thou thus thy drooping head 1 
Thou, that hold'st the blast in scorn, 
Thou, that wear'st the wings of morn ! 

Eagle ! wilt thou not arise 1 
Look upon thine own bright skies ! 
Lift thy glance ! the fiery sun 
There his pride of place hath won ! 
And the mountain lark is there, 
And sweet sound hath fill'd the air ; 
Hast thou left that realm on high 1 
— Oh ! it can be but to die ! 

Eagle ! eagle ! thou hast bow'd 
From thine empire o'er the cloud ! 
Thou, that hadst etherial birth, 
Thou hast stoop'd too near the earth, 



And the hunter's shaft hath found thee, 
And the toils of death have bound thee ! 
— Wherefore didst thou leave thy place, 
Creature of a kingly race ? 

Wert thou weary of thy throne 1 
Was thy sky's dominion lone ] 
Chill and lone it well might be, 
Yet that mighty wing was free ! 
Now the chain is o'er it cast, 
From thy heart the blood flows fast, 
— Woe for gifted souls and high ! 
Is not such their destiny 1 



SADNESS AND MIRTH. 

" Nay, these wild fits of uncurb'd laughter 
Athwart the gloomy tenor of your mind, 
As it has lower'd of late, so keenly cast, 
Unsuited seem, and strange. 

Oh, nothing strange ! 
Did'st thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast, 
Winging the air beneath some murky cloud, 
In the sunn'd glimpses of a troubled day, 
Shiver in silvery brightness ? 
Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning, flash 
In the faint gleam, that, like a spirit's path, 
Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake ? 

O gentle friend ! 
Chide not her mirth, who yesterday was sad, 
And may be so to-morrow! " Joakha Baiixie. 

Ye met at the stately feasts of old, 
Where the bright wine foam'd over sculptured gold; 
Sadness and Mirth ! ye were mingled there 
With the sound of the lyre in the scented air ; 
As the cloud and the lightning are blent on high, 
Ye mix'd in the gorgeous revelry. 

For there hung o'erthose banquets of yore a gloom, 

A thought and a shadow of the tomb ; 

It gave to the flute-notes an under-tone, 

To the rose a colouring not its own, 

To the breath of the myrtle a mournful power — 

Sadness and Mirth ! ye had each your dower ! 

Ye met when the triumph swept proudly by, 
With the Roman eagles through the sky ! 
I know that even then, in his hour of pride, 
The soul of the mighty within him died ; 
That a void in his bosom lay darkly still, 
Which the music of victory might never fill ! 

Thou wert there, Mirth ! swelling on the shout, 
Till the temples, like echo-caves, rang out ; 
Thine were the garlands, the songs, the wine — 
All the rich voices in air were thine, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



481 



The incense, the sunshine — but, Sadness, thy part, 
Deepest of all, was the victor's heart ! 

Ye meet at the bridal with flower and tear , 

Strangely and wildly ye meet by the bier ! 

As the gleam from a sea-bird's white wing shed 

Crosses the storm in its path of dread ; 

As a dirge meets the breeze of a summer sky — 

Sadness and Mirth ! so ye come and fly ! 

Ye meet in the poet's haunted breast, 
Darkness and rainbow, alike its guest ! 
When the breath of the violet is out in spring, 
When the woods with the wakening of music ring, 
O'er his dreamy spirit your currents pass, 
Like shadow and sunlight o'er mountain grass. 

When will your parting be, Sadness and Mirth ? 
Bright stream and dark one ! Oh, never on earth ! 
Never while triumphs and tombs are so near, 
While death and love walk the same dim sphere, 
While flowers unfold where the storm may sweep, 
While the heart of man is a soundless deep ! 

But there smiles a land, ye troubled pair ! 
Where ye have no part in the summer air : 
Far from the breathings of changeful skies, 
Over the seas and the graves it lies ; 
Where the day of the lightning and cloud is done, 
And joy reigns alone, as the lonely sun ! 



THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEATH-SONG. 



'■ Willst du nach den Nachtigallen fragen, 

Die mit seelenvollen melodie 
Dich entzuckten in des Lenzes Tagen ? 
— Nur so lang sie liebten, waren sie." Schiller. 



Mournfully, sing mournfully, 

And die away, my heart ! 
The rose, the glorious rose is gone, 

And I, too, will depart. 

The skies have lost their splendour, 
The waters changed their tone, 

And, wherefore, in the faded world, 
Should music linger on ] 

Where is the golden sunshine, 
And where the flower-cup's glow 1 

And where the joy of the dancing leaves, 
And the fountain's laughing flow ] 



A voice, in every whisper 

Of the wave, the bough, the air, 

Comes asking for the beautiful, 
And moaning, "Where, oh ! where?" 

Tell of the brightness parted, 
Thou bee, thou lamb at play ! 

Thou lark, in thy victorious mirth J 
— Are ye, too, pass'd away 1 

Mournfully, sing mournfully I 

The royal rose is gone : 
Melt from the woods, my spirit ! melt 

In one deep farewell tone ! 

Not so ! — swell forth triumphantly 
The full, rich, fervent strain ! 

Hence with young love and life I go, 
In the summer's joyous train. 

With sunshine, with sweet odour, 

With every precious thing, 
Upon the last warm southern breeze 

My soul its flight shall wing. 

Alone I shall not linger, 

When the days of hope are past, 
To watch the fall of leaf by leaf, 

To wait the rushing blast. 

Triumphantly, triumphantly ! 

Sing to the woods, I go ! 
For me, perchance, in other lands, 

The glorious rose may blow. 

The sky's transparent azure, 
And the greensward's violet breath, 

And the dance of light leaves in the wind, 
May there know naught of death. 

No more, no more sing mournfully ! 

Swell high, then break, my heart ! 
With love, the spirit of the woods, 

With summer I depart ! 



THE DIVER. 

" They learn in suffering what they teach in song." — Shellet. 

Thou hast been where the rocks of coral grow, 
Thou hast fought with eddying waves ; — 

Thy cheek is pale, and thy heart beats low, 
Thou searcher of ocean's caves ! 



482 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Thou hast look'd on the gleaming wealth of old, 


And who will think, when the strain is sung 


And wrecks where the brave have striven : 


Till a thousand hearts are stirr'd, 


The deep is a strong and a fearful hold, 


What life-drops, from the minstrel wrung, 


But thou its bar hast riven ! 


Have gush'd with every word 1 


A wild and weary life is thine — 


None, none ! — his treasures live like thine, 


A wasting task and lone, 


He strives and dies like thee ; 


Though treasure-grots for thee may shine, 


— Thou, that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine, 


To all besides unknown ! 


wrestler with the sea ! 


A weary life ! but a swift decay 





Soon, soon shall set thee free ; 




Thou'rt passing fast from thy toils away, 


THE REQUIEM OF GENIUS. 


Thou wrestler with the sea ! 






" Les poetes, dont l'imagmation tient la puissance d'aimer et de 


In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek, 


souffrir, ne sont-ils pas les bannis d'une autre region ?" 


Well are the death-signs read — 


Madame de Stael— " De L' Allemagne." 


Go ! for the pearl in its cavern seek, 




Ere hope and power be fled ! 


No tears for thee ! — though light be from us gone 




With thy soul's radiance, bright, yet restless one ! 


And bright in beauty's coronal 


No tears for thee ! 


That glistening gem shall be ; 


They that have loved an exile, must not mourn 


A star to all in the festive hall — 


To see him parting for his native bourne 


But who will think on thee ? 


O'er the dark sea. 


None ! — as it gleams from the queen-like head, 


All the high music of thy spirit here 


Not one midst throngs will say, 


Breathed but the language of another sphere, 


" A life hath been, like a raindrop, shed 


Unecho'd round ; 


For that pale, quivering ray ! " 


And strange, though sweet, as midst our weeping 




Some half-remember'd strain of Paradise [skies 


"Woe for the wealth thus dearly bought ! 


Might sadly sound. 


— And are not those like thee, 




Who win for earth the gems of thought 1 


Hast thou been answer'd 1 — thou, that from the 


wrestler with the sea ! 


night, 




And from the voices of the tempest's might, 


Down to the gulfs of the soul they go, 


And from the past, 


Where the passion-fountains burn, 


Wert seeking still some oracle's reply, 


Gathering the jewels far below 


To pour the secrets of man's destiny 


From many a buried urn : 


Forth on the blast ! 


Wringing from lava- veins the fire, 


Hast thou been answer'd ? — thou, that through the 


That o'er bright words is pour'd ; 


gloom, 


Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre 


And shadow, and stern silence of the tomb, 


A spirit in each chord. 


A cry didst send, 




So passionate and deep ? — to pierce, to move, 


But, oh ! the price of bitter tears 


To win back token of unburied love 


Paid for the lonely power 


From buried friend ! 


That throws at last, o'er desert years, 




A darkly glorious dower ! 


And hast thou found where living waters burst 1 




Thou that didst pine amidst us in the thirst 


Like flower-seeds, by the wild wind spread, 


Of fever-dreams ! 


So radiant thoughts are strew'd ; 


Are the true fountains thine for evermore 1 


— The soul whence those high gifts are shed 


lured so long by shining mists that wore 


May faint in solitude ! 


The light of streams ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



483 



Speak ! is it well with thee ? We call, as thou, 
With thy lit eye, deep voice, and kindled brow, 

Wert wont to call 
On the departed ! Art thou bless'd and free ? 
— Alas ! the lips earth covers, even to thee 

Were silent all ! 

Yet shall our hope rise fann'd by quenchless faith, 
As a flame, foster'd by some warm wind's breath, 

In light upsprings : 
Freed soul of song ! yes, thou hast found the sought ; 
Borne to thy home of beauty and of thought, 

On morning's wings. 

And we will dream it is thy joy we hear, 
When life's young music, ringing far and clear, 

O'erflows the sky. 
No tears for thee ! the lingering gloom is ours — 
Thou art for converse with all glorious powers, 

Never to die ! 



TRIUMPHANT MUSIC. 

" Taeete, tacete, O suoni trionfanti ! 
Bisvegliate in vano '1 cor che non puo liberarsi." 

Wherefore and whither bear'st thou up my spirit, 
On eagle wings, through every plume that thrill? 

It hath no crown of victory to inherit — 
Be still, triumphant harmony ! be still ! 

Thine are no sounds for earth, thus proudly swell- 
Into rich floods of joy. It is but pain [ing 

To mount so high, yet find on high no dwelling, 
To sink so fast, so heavily again ! 

No sounds for earth ? Yes, to young chieftain dying 
On his own battle-field, at set of sun, 

With his freed country's banner o'er him flying, 
Well mightst thou speak of fame's high guerdon 



No sounds for earth ? Y es, for the martyr, leading 
Unto victorious death serenely on ; 

For patriot by his rescued altars bleeding, 
Thou hast a voice in each majestic tone. 

But speak not thus to one whose heart is beating 
Against life's narrow bound, in conflict vain ! 

For power, for joy, high hope, and rapturous 

greeting, [strain ! 

Thou wakest lone thirst — be hush'd, exulting 



Be hush'd, or breathe of grief ! — of exile yearnings 
Under the willows of the stranger-shore ; 

Breathe of the soul's untold and restless burnings 
For looks, tones, footsteps, that return no more. 

Breathe of deep love — a lonely vigil keeping 
Through the night-hours, o'er wasted wealth to 
pine ; [heaping 

Rich thoughts and sad, like faded rose-leaves, 
In the shut heart, at once a tomb and shrine. 

Or pass as if thy spirit-notes came sighing 
From worlds beneath some blue Elysian sky ; 

Breathe of repose, the pure, the bright, th' un- 
dying— 
Of joy no more — bewildering harmony ! 



SECOND-SIGHT. 



: Ne'er err'd the prophet-heart that grief inspired, 
Though joy's illusions mock their votarist." — Maturin. 



A mournful gift is mine, friends ! 

A mournful gift is mine ! 
A murmur of the soul which blends 

With the flow of song and wine. 

An eye that through the triumph's hour 

Beholds the coming woe, 
And dwells upon the faded flower 

Midst the rich summer's glow. 

Ye smile to view fair faces bloom 
Where the father's board is spread ; 

I see the stillness and the gloom 
Of a home whence all are fled. 

I see the wither'd garlands lie 

Forsaken on the earth, 
While the lamps yet burn, and the dancers fly 

Through the ringing hall of mirth. 

I see the blood-red future stain 

On the warrior's gorgeous crest ; 
And the bier amidst the bridal train 

When they come with roses drest. 

I hear the still small moan of time 
Through the ivy branches made, 

Where the palace, in its glory's prime, 
With the sunshine stands array 'd. 



484 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



The thunder of the seas I hear, 

The shriek along the wave, 
When the bark sweeps forth, and song and cheer 

Salute the parting brave. 

With every breeze a spirit sends 

To me some warning sign, — 
A mournful gift is mine, friends ! 

A mournful gift is mine ! 

prophet-heart ! thy grief, thy power, 

To all deep souls belong — 
The shadow in the sunny hour, 

The wail in the mirthful song. 

Their sight is all too sadly clear — 

For them a veil is riven ; 
Their piercing thoughts repose not here, 

Their home is but in heaven. 



THE SEA-BIRD FLYING INLAND. 

*' Thy path is not as mine j— where thou art blest 
My spirit would but wither ; mine own grief 
Is in mine eyes a richer, holier thing, 
Than all thy happiness." 

Hath the summer's breath on the south- wind borne, 
Met the dark seas in their sweeping scorn ? 
Hath it lured thee, bird! from their sounding caves 
To the river shores where the osier waves 1 

Or art thou come on the hills to dwell, 
Where the sweet-voiced echoes have many a celll 
Where the moss bears print of the wild-deer's tread, 
And the heath like a royal robe is spread ] 

Thou hast done well, thou bright sea-bird ! 
There is joy where the song of the lark is heard, 
With the dancing of waters through copse and dell, 
And the bee's low tune in the fox-glove's bell. 

Thou hast done well : oh ! the seas are lone, 
And the voice they send up hath a mournful tone ; 
A mingling of dirges and wild farewells, 
Fitfully breathed through its anthem swells. 

The proud bird rose as the words were said — 
The rush of his pinion swept o'er my head, 
And the glance of his eye, in its bright disdain, 
Spoke him a child of the haughty main. 

He hath flown from the woods to the ocean's breast, 
To his throne of pride on the billow's crest. 



Oh ! who shall say to a spirit free — 

" There lies the pathway of bliss for thee V 



THE SLEEPER. 

Oh ! lightly, lightly tread ! 

A holy thing is sleep, 
On the worn spirit shed, 

And eyes that wake to weep. 

A holy thing from heaven, 

A gracious dewy cloud, 
A covering mantle given 

The weary to enshroud. 

Oh ! lightly, lightly tread ! 

Revere the pale still brow, 
The meekly drooping head, 

The long hair's willowy flow. 

Ye know not what ye do, 
That call the slumberer back 

From the world unseen by you 
Unto life's dim, faded track. 

Her soul is far away, 

In her childhood's land perchance, 
Where her young sisters play, 

Where shines her mother's glance. 

Some old sweet native sound 

Her spirit haply weaves ; 
A harmony profound 

Of woods with all their leaves ; 

A murmur of the sea, 

A laughing tone of streams : — 
Long may her sojourn be 

In the music-land of dreams ! 

Each voice of love is there, 
Each gleam of beauty fled, 

Each lost one still more fair — 
Oh ! lightly, lightly tread • 



THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED HALL. 

dim, forsaken mirror ! 
How many a stately throng 
Hath o'er thee gleam'd, in vanish'd hours 
Of the wine-cup and the song ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 485 


The song hath left no echo ; 


And e'en for this I call thee blest, 


The bright wine hath been quaff' d ; 


The gentle poet's child ! 


And hush'd is every silvery voice 




That lightly here hath laugh'd. 






THE STAR OF THE MINE. 


mirror — lonely mirror ! 




Thou of the silent hall ! 


From the deep chambers of a mine, 


Thou hast been fiush'd with beauty's bloom — 


With heavy gloom o'erspread, 


Is this, too, vanish'd all 1 


I saw a star at noontide shine 




Serenely o'er my head. 


It is, with the scatter'd garlands 




Of triumphs long ago, 


I had not seen it midst the glow 


With the melodies of buried lyres, 


Of the rich upper day ; 


With the faded rainbow's glow. 


But in that shadowy world below, 




How my heart bless'd its ray ! 


And for all the gorgeous pageants — ■ 




For the glance of gem and plume, 


And still, the farther from my sight 


For lamp, and harp, and rosy wreath, 


Torches and lamps were borne, 


And vase of rich perfume — ■ 


The purer, lovelier, seem'd the light 




That wore its beams unshorn. 


Now, dim, forsaken mirror ! 




Thou givest but faintly back 


Oh ! what is like that heavenly spark ? 


The quiet stars, and the saihng moon, 


— A friend's kind, steadfast eye ; 


On her solitary track. 


Where, brightest when the world grows dark, 




Hope, cheer, and comfort lie ! 


And thus with man's proud spirit 




Thou tellest me 'twill be, 





When the forms and hues of this world fade 


WASHINGTON'S STATUE. 


From his memory, as from thee : 






SENT FROM ENGLAND TO AMERICA. 


And his heart's long-troubled waters 


Yes ! rear thy guardian hero's form 


At last in stillness lie, 


On thy proud soil, thou western world ! 


Reflecting but the images 


A watcher through each sign of storm, 


Of the solemn world on high. 


O'er freedom's flag unfurl'd. 




There, as before a shrine, to bow, 




Bid thy true sons their children lead : 




The language of that noble brow 


TO THE DAUGHTER OF BERNARD BARTON, 


For all things good shall plead. 


THE QUAKER POET. 


The spirit rear'd in patriot fight, 




The virtue born of home and hearth, 


Happy thou art, the child of one 


There calmly throned, a holy light 


Who in each lowly flower, 


Shall pour o'er chainless earth. 


Each leaf that glances to the sun, 




Or trembles with the shower ; 


And let that work of England's hand, 




Sent through the blast and surge's roar, 


In each soft shadow of the sky, 


So girt with tranquil glory stand 


Or sparkle of the stream, 


For ages on thy shore ! 


Will guide thy kindling spirit's eye 




To trace the Love Supreme. 


Such, through all time, the greetings be, 




That with the Atlantic billow sweep ! 


So shall deep quiet fill thy breast, 


Telling the mighty and the free 


A joy in wood and wild; 


Of brothers o'er the deep. 



486 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


A THOUGHT OF HOME AT SEA. 


Thus rests thy spirit still on those with whom 




Thy step the path of joyous duty trode, 


WRITTEN FOR MUSIC. 


Bidding them make an altar of thy tomb, 


'Tis lone on the waters 


Where chasten'd thought may offer praise to God. 


When eve's mournful bell 




Sends forth to the sunset 




A note of farewell ; 




When, borne with the shadows 


TO AN ORPHAN. 


And winds as they sweep, 




There comes a fond memory 


Thou hast been rear'd too tenderly, 


Of home o'er the deep ; 


Beloved too well and long, 




Watch'd by too many a gentle eye : 




When the wing of the sea-bird 


Now look on life — be strong ! 




Is turn'd to her nest, 






And the thought of the sailor 


Too quiet seem'd thy joys for change, 




To all he loves best ! 


Too holy and too deep ; 






Bright clouds, through summer skies that range, 


'Tis lone on the waters — 


Seem ofttimes thus to sleep, — 




That hour hath a spell 






To bring back sweet voices, 


To sleep in silvery stillness bound, 


With words of farewell ! 


As things that ne'er may melt ; 




Yet gaze again — no trace is found 





To show thee where they dwelt. 


TO THE MEMOEY OF A SISTER-IN-LAW. 


This world hath no more love to give 




Like that which thou hast known ; 


We miss thy voice while early flowers are blowing, 


Yet the heart breaks not — we survive 


And the first flush of blossom clothes each bough, 


Our treasures — and bear on. 


And the spring sunshine round our home is glowing 




Soft as thy smile : thou shouldst be with us now. 


But oh ! too beautiful and blest 




Thy home of youth hath been ! 


With us? We wrong thee by the earthly thought : 


Where shall thy wing, poor bird ! find rest, 


Could our fond gaze but follow where thou art, 


Shut out from that sweet scene 1 


Well might the glories of this world seem naught 




To the one promise given the pure in heart. 


Kind voices from departed years 




Must haunt thee many a day ; 


Yet wert thou blest e'en here — oh ! ever blest 


Looks that will smite the source of tears 


In thine own sunny thoughts and tranquil faith! 


Across thy soul must play. 


The silent joy that still o'erfiow'd thy breast 




Needed but guarding from all change, by death. 


Friends — now the alter'd or the dead, 




And music that is gone, 


So is it seal'd to peace ! On thy clear brow 


A gladness o'er thy dreams will shed, 


Never was care one fleeting shade to cast ; 


And thou shalt wake — alone. 


And thy calm days in brightness were to flow 




A holy stream, untroubled to the last. 


Alone ! it is in that deep word 




That all thy sorrow lies ; 


Farewell ! thy life hath left surviving love 


How is the heart to courage stirr'd 


A wealth of records, and sweet " feelings given," 


By smiles from kindred eyes ! 


JFrom sorrow's heart the faintness to remove 




By whispers breathing "less of earth than 


And are these lost 1 — and have I said 


heaven." 1 


To aught like thee — be strong? 


1 Alluding to the lines she herself quoted but an hour 


" Some feelings are to mortals given 


before her death . — 


With less of earth in them than heaven." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



487 



— So bid the willow lift its head, 
And brave the tempest's wrong ! 

Thou reed! o'er which the storm hath pass'd- 

Thou shaken with the wind ! 
On one, one friend thy weakness cast — 

There is but One to bind ! 



HYVLN BY THE SICKBED OF A MOTHER. 

Father ! that in the olive-shade, 
When the dark hour came on, 
Didst, with a breath of heavenly aid, 
Strengthen thy Son ; 

Oh ! by the anguish of that night, 

Send us down bless'd relief ; 
Or to the chasten'd, let thy might 
Hallow this grief ! 

And Thou, that when the starry sky 

Saw the dread strife begun, 
Didst teach adoring faith to cry, 
" Thy will be done ;" 

By thy meek spirit, Thou, of all 

That e'er have mourn' d, the chief — 
Thou Saviour ! if the stroke must fall, 
Hallow this grief ! 



WHERE IS THE SEA? 

SONG OF THE GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE. 

[A Greek Islander, being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and 
called upon to admire its beauty, only replied — " The sea — 
where is it ? "] 

Where is the sea 1 — I languish here — 

Where is my own blue sea 1 
With all its barks in fleet career, 

And flags, and breezes free 1 

I miss that voice of waves which first 

Awoke my childhood's glee ; 
The measured chime — the thundering burst — 

Where is my own blue sea 1 

Oh ! rich your myrtle's breath may rise, 

Soft, soft your winds may be ; 
Yet my sick heart within me dies — 

Where is my own blue sea % 



I hear the shepherd's mountain flute, 
I hear the whispering tree ; 

The echoes of my soul are mute, 
— Where is my own blue sea ? 



[All this time, her imagination was at work more busily 
than ever ; new thoughts and fresh fancies seemed to spring 
up "as willows by the water-courses:" and the facility with 
which her lyrics were poured forth, approached, in many in- 
stances, to actual improvisation. When confined to her bed, 
and unable to use a pen, she would often employ the services 
of those about her, to write down what she had composed. 
" Felicia has just sent for me," wrote her amanuensis on one 
of these occasions, " with pencil and paper, to put down a 
little song, (' Where is the Sea ?') which, she said, had come 
to her like a strain of music, whilst lying in the twilight under 
the infliction of a blister ; and as I really think ' a scrap ' (as 
our late eccentric visitor would call it) composed under such 
circumstances, is, to use the words of Coleridge, a ' psycho- 
logical curiosity,' I cannot resist copying it for you. It was 
suggested by a story she somewhere read lately, of a Greek 
islander, carried off to the Vale of Tempe, and pining amidst 
all its beauties for the sight and sound of his native sea." — > 
Memoir, p. 134.] 



TO MY OWN PORTRAIT. 

How is it that before mine eyes, 

While gazing on thy mien, 
All my past years of life arise, 

As in a mirror seen % 
What spell within thee hath been shrined 
To image back my own deep mind 1 

Even as a song of other times 

Can trouble memory's springs ; 
Even as a sound of vesper-chimes 

Can wake departed things ; 
Even as a scent of vernal flowers 
Hath records fraught with vanish'd hours, — 

Such power is thine ! They come, the dead, 

From the grave's bondage free, 
And smiling back the changed are led 

To look in love on thee ; 
And voices that are music flown 
Speak to me in the heart's full tone : 

Till crowding thoughts my soul oppress — 
The thoughts of happier years — 

And a vain gush of tenderness 
O'erflows in child-like tears ; 

A passion which I may not stay, 

A sudden fount that must have way. 



488 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



But thou, the while — oh ! almost strange, 

Mine imaged self ! it seems 
That on thy brow of peace no change 

Keflects my own swift dreams ; 
Almost I marvel not to trace 
Those lights and shadows in thy face. 

To see thee calm, while powers thus deep — 

Affection, Memory, Grief — 
Pass o'er my soul as winds that sweep 

O'er a frail aspen leaf ! 
Oh, that the quiet of thine eye 
Might sink there when the storm goes by ! 

Yet look thou still serenely on, 
And if sweet friends there be 

That when my song and soul are gone 
Shall seek my form in thee, — 

Tell them of one for whom 'twas best 

To flee away and be at rest ! 

[In the autumn of 1827, at the urgent request of Mr Alaric 
"Watts, who was then forming a gallery of portraits of the 
living authors of Great Britain, Mrs Hemans was prevailed 
upon to sit for her picture. The artist selected on this occa- 
sion was Mr W. E. West, an American by birth, who had 
passed some time in Italy, and painted the last likeness ever 
taken of Lord Byron, and also one of Madame Guiccioli, 
which was engraved in one of the annuals. During his stay 
at Rhyllon, where he remained for some weeks, he finished 
three several portraits of Mrs Hemans— one for Mr Alaric 
"Watts, one which is now in the possession of Professor Norton, 
and a third, which he most courteously presented to Mrs 
Hemans' sister, to whom it was even then a treasure, and is 
now become one of inestimable value. This likeness, con- 
sidered by her family as the best ever taken of her, is the one 
which suggested Mrs Hemans's affecting lines, " To my own 
Portrait." ... It is, however, only fair to repeat the 
remark already made, and in which all those who were accus- 
tomed to study the play of her features must concur— that 
there never was a countenance more difficult to transfer to 
canvass ; so varying were its expressions, and so impossible 
is it to be satisfied with the one which can alone be perpetu- 
ated by the artist. The great charm of Mr West's picture is 
its perfect freedom from any thing set or constrained in the 
air ; and the sweet, serious expression, so accordant with her 
maternal character, which recalls her own lines — 
" Mother ! with thine earnest eye 
Ever following silently ;" 

and which made one of her children remark, in glancing from 
it to the bust, executed some years after by Mr Angus 
Fletcher i— "The bust is the poetess, but the picture is all 
mother:'— Memoir, p. 129-130.] 



NO MOEE. 

No more ! A harp-string's deep and breaking tone, 
A last, low, summer breeze, a far-off swell, 

1 An engraving from Mr Fletcher's admirable bust forms 
the frontispiece to the present volume. 



A dying echo of lich music gone, 

Breathe through those words — those murmurs 
of farewell — 

No more ! 

To dwell in peace, with home-affections bound, 
To know the sweetness of a mother's voice, 

To feel the spirit of her love around, 
And in the blessing of her eye rejoice — 
No more ! 

A dirge-like sound ! To greet the early friend 
Unto the hearth, his place of many days ; 

In the glad song with kindred lips to blend, 
Or join the household laughter by the blaze — 
No more ! 

Through woods that shadow'd our first years to rove 
With all our native music in the air ; 

To watch the sunset with the eyes we love, 
And turn, and read our own heart's answer there — 
No more ! 

Words of despair ! — yet earth's, all earth's the woe 
Their passion breathes — the desolately deer ! 

That sound in heaven — oh ! image then the low 
Of gladness in its tones — to part, to weep- 
No more ! 

To watch, in dying hope, affection's wane, 
To see the beautiful from life depart, 

To wear impatiently a secret chain, 

To waste the untold riches of the heart — 
No more ! 

Through long, long years to seek, to strive, to yearn 
For human love 1 — and never quench that thirst; 

To pour the soul out, winning no return, 
O'er fragile idols, by delusion nursed — ■ 
No more ! 

On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean, 
To mourn the changed, the far away, the dead; 

To send our troubled spirits through the unseen, 
Intensely questioning for treasures fled — 
No more ! 

Words of triumphant music ! Bear we on 

The weight of life, the chain, the ungenial air ; 
Their deathless meaning, when our tasks are done, 
To learn in joy, — to struggle, to despair — 

No more ! 
2 " Jamais, jamais, je ne serai aime comme faime /" was 
a mournful expression of Madame de Stael's. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 489 


THOUGHT FROM AN ITALIAN" POET. 


When we mingled sympathies 




"Passing away 1 ?" 


Wheke shall I find, in all this fleeting earth, 




This world of changes and farewells, a friend 


Oh ! if this may be so, 


That will not fail me in his love and worth, 


Speed, speed, thou closing day ! 


Tender and firm, and faithful to the end ? 


How blest from earth's vain show 




To pass away ! 


Far hath my spirit sought a place of rest — 




Long on vain idols its devotion shed ; 





Some have forsaken, whom I loved the best, 




And some deceived, and some are with the dead. 


THE ANGLER. 1 


] 


3ut thou, my Saviour ! thou, my hope and trust, 


" I in these flowery meads would be; 
These crystal streams should solace me ; 




Faithful art thou when friends and joys depart; 


To whose harmonious bubbling noise 


r 


^each me to lift these yearnings from the dust, 


I with my angle would rejoice ; 




And fix on thee, th' Unchanging One, my heart! 


And angle on, and beg to have 

A quiet passage to a welcome grave." 

Isaac Walton. 

Thou that hast loved so long and well 




PASSING AWAY. 


The vale's deep, quiet streams, 


" ' Passing away ' is written on the world, and all the world 


Where the pure water-lilies dwell, 


contains." 


Shedding forth tender gleams ; 


It is written on the rose, 


And o'er the pool the May-fly's wing 


In its glory's full array ; 


Glances in golden eves of spiing ! 


Bead what those buds disclose — 




"Passing away." 


Oh, lone and lovely haunts are thine ! 




Soft, soft the river flows, . 


It is written on the skies 


Wearing the shadow of thy line, 


Of the soft blue summer day ; 


The gloom of alder-boughs ; 


It is traced in sunset's dyes — 


And in the midst a richer hue, 


" Passing away." 


One gliding vein of heaven's own blue. 


It is written on the trees, 


And there but low sweet sounds are heard — 


As their young leaves glistening play, 


The whisper of the reed, 


And on brighter things than these — 


The plashing trout, the rustling bird, 


" Passing away." 


The scythe upon the mead ; 




Yet, through the murmuring osiers near, 


It is written on the brow 


There steals a step which mortals fear. 


Where the spirit's ardent ray 




Lives, burns, and triumphs now — 


'Tis not the stag, that comes to lave 


" Passing away." 


At noon his panting breast ; 




'Tis not the bittern, by the wave 


It is written on the heart; 


Seeking her sedgy nest ; 


Alas ! that there Decay 


The air is fill'd with summer's breath, 


Should claim from Love a part — 


The young flowers laugh — yet look ! 'tis Death ! 


" Passing away." 






But if, where silvery currents rove, 


Friends, friends ! — oh ! shall we meet 


Thy heart, grown still and sage, 


In a land of purer day, 


Hath learn'd to read the words of love 


Where lovely things and sweet 


That shine o'er nature's page ; 


Pass not away 1 


If holy thoughts thy guests have been 




Under the shade of willows green ; 


Shall we know each other's eyes, 


1 This, and the following poem, were originally written for 


And the thoughts that in them lay 


a work entitled Death's Doiivjs, edited by Mr Alaric Watts. 



490 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Then, lover of the silent hour 

By deep lone waters pass'd ! 
Thence hast thou drawn a faith, a power, 

To cheer thee through the last ; 
And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell, 
May'st calmly bid thy streams farewell. 



DEATH AND THE WAEEIOE. 

' At, warrior, arm ! and wear thy plume 

On a proud and fearless brow ! 

I am the lord of the lonely tomb, 

And a mightier one than thou ! 

" Bid thy soul's love farewell, young chief — 

Bid her a long farewell ! 
Like the morning's dew shall pass that grief : 

Thou comest with me to dwell ! 

" Thy bark may rush through the foaming deep, 

Thy steed o'er the breezy hill ■ 
But they bear thee on to a place of sleep, 

Narrow, and cold, and chill ! " 

" Was the voice I heard thy voice, Death ! 

And is thy day so near ] 
Then on the field shall my life's last breath 

Mingle with victory's cheer ! 

"Banners shall float, with the trumpet's note, 

Above me as I die ! 
And the palm-tree wave o'er my noble grave, 

Under the Syrian sky. 

" High hearts shall burn in the royal hall, 
When the minstrel names that spot ; 

And the eyes I love shall weep my fall.— 
Death, Death, I fear thee not !" 

" Warrior ! thou bear'st a haughty heart, 

But I can bend its pride ! 
How shouldst thou know that thy soul will part 

In the hour of victory's tide ? 

" It may be far from thy steel-clad bands 

That I shall make thee mine ; 
It may be lone on the desert sands, 

Where men for fountains pine ! 

" It may be deep amidst heavy chains, 

In some deep Paynim hold ; 
I have slow, dull, steps and lingering pains 

Wherewith to tame the bold !" 



" Death, Death ! I go to a doom unblest, 

If this indeed must be ; 
But the Cross is bound upon my breast. 

And I may not shrink for thee ! 

" Sound, clarion ! sound ! — for my vows are given 

To the cause of the holy shrine ; 
I bow my soul to the will of heaven, 

Death ! — and not to thine !" 



SONG FOR AN AIR BY HUMMEL. 

Oh ! if thou wilt not give thine heart, 

Give back my own to me ; 
For if in thine I have no part, 

Why should mine dwell with thee ?* 

Yet no ! this mournful love of mine 

I will not from me cast ; 
Let me but dream 'twill win me thine 

By its deep truth at last ! 

Can aught so fond, so faithful, live 
Through years without reply ] 

— Oh ! if thy heart thou wilt not give, 
Give me a thought, a sigh ! 



TO THE 

MEMORY OF LORD CHARLES MURRAY, 

SON OF THE DUKE OF ATHOLL, WHO DIED IN THE CAUSE, 
AND LAMENTED BY THE PEOPLE OF GREECE. 

" Time cannot teach forgetfulness, 
When griers full heart is fed by fame."— Byron. 

Thou shouldst have slept beneath the stately pines, 
And with th' ancestral trophies of thy race ; 

Thou that hast found, where alien tombs and 
shrines 
Speak of the past, a lonely dwelling-place ! 

Far from thy brethren hath thy couch been spread, 

Thou bright young stranger midst the mighty dead ! 

Yet to thy name a noble rite was given, 

Banner and dirge met proudly o'er thy grave, 

Under that old and glorious Grecian heaven, 
Which unto death so oft hath lit the brave : 

And thy dust blends with mould heroic there, 

With all that sanctifies the inspiring air. 

1 The first verse of this song is a literal translation from 
the German. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



491 



Vain voice of fame ! sad sound for those that weep ! 

For her, the mother, in whose bosom lone 
Thy childhood dwells — whose thoughts a record 
keep 

Of smiles departed and sweet accents gone ; 
Of all thine early grace and gentle worth — 
A vernal promise, faded now from earth ! 

But a bright memory claims a proud regret — 
A lofty sorrow finds its own deep springs 

Of healing balm ; and she hath treasures yet 
Whose soul can number with love's holy things, 

A name like thine ! Wow, past all cloud or spot* 

A gem is hers, laid up where change is not. 



THE BROKEN CHAIN. 

I am free ! — I have burst through my galling chain, 
The life of young eagles is mine again; 
I may cleave with my bark the glad sounding sea, 
I may rove where the wind roves — my path is free ! 

The streams dash in joy down the summer hill, 
The birds pierce the depths of the sky at will, 
The arrow goes forth with the singing breeze, — 
And is not my spirit as one of these ] 

Oh ! the green earth with its wealth of flowers, 
And the voices that ring through its forest bowers, 
And the laughing glance of the founts that shine, 
Lighting the valleys — all, all are mine ! 

I may urge through the desert my foaming steed, 
The wings of the morning shall lend him speed ; 
I may meet the storm in its rushing glee — 
Its blasts and its lightnings are not more free ! 

Captive ! and hast thou then rent thy chain 1 
Art thou free in the wilderness, free on the main'? 
Yes ! there thy spirit may proudly soar, 
But must thou not mingle with throngs the more'? 

The bird when he pineth, may hush his song, 
Till the hour when his heart shall again be strong; 
But thou — canst thou turn in thy woe aside, 
And weep, midst thy brethren 1 ? No, not for pride. 

May the fiery word from thy lip find way, [day? 
When the thoughts burning in thee shall spring to 
May the care that sits in thy weary breast 
Look forth from thine aspect, the revel's guest 1 



No ! with the shaft in thy bosom borne, 
Thou must hide the wound in thy fear of scorn ; 
Thou must fold thy mantle that none may see, 
And mask thee with laughter, and say thou art free. 

No ! thou art chain'd till thy race is run, 
By the power of all in the soul of one ; 
On thy heart, on thy lip, must the fetter be — 
Dreamer ! fond dreamer ! oh, who is free 1 



THE SHADOW OF A FLOWER. 

" La voila telle que la mort nous l'a faite." — Bossuet. 

[' ' Never was a philosophical imagination more beautiful than 
that exquisite one of Kircher, Digby, and others, who dis- 
covered in the ashes of plants their primitive forms, which 
were again raised up by the power of heat. The ashes of 
roses, say they, will again revive in roses, unsubstantial and 
unodoriferous ; they are not roses which grow on rose-trees, 
but their delicate apparitions, and, like apparitions, they 
are seen but for a moment." — Curiosities of Literature.'] 

'Twas a dream of olden days 

That Art, by some strange power, 

The visionary form could raise 
From the ashes of a flower. 

That a shadow of the rose, 

By its own meek beauty bow'd, 

Might slowly, leaf by leaf, unclose, 
Like pictures in a cloud. 

Or the hyacinth, to grace, 

As a second rainbow, spring ; 
Of summer's path a dreary trace, 

A fair, yet mournful thing ! 

For the glory of the bloom 

That a flush around it shed, 
And the soul within, the rich perfume, 

Where were they ? Fled, all fled ! 

Naught but the dim, faint line 

To speak of vanish'd hours. — 
Memory ! what are joys of thine? 

— Shadows of buried flowers ! 



LINES TO A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON 
A SKULL. 

Creature of air and light ! 
Emblem of that which will not fade or die ! 



492 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


"Wilt thou not speed thy flight, 


THE SUBTERRANEAN STREAM. 


To chase the south wind through the glowing sky ■ 




What lures thee thus to stay 


" Thou stream, 


Whose source is inaccessibly profound, 


With silence and decay, 


Whither do thy mysterious waters tend ? 


Fix'd on the wreck of cold mortality 1 


— Thou imagest my life." 




Darkly thou glidest onward, 


The thoughts once chamber d there, 


Thou deep and hidden wave ! 


Have gather'd up their treasures and are gone; — 


The laughing sunshine hath not look'd 


Will the dust tell thee where 


Into thy secret cave. 


That which hath burst the prison-house is flown ] 




Eise, nursling of the day ! 


Thy current makes no music — ■ 


If thou wouldst trace its way — 


A hollow sound we hear, 


Earth has no voice to make the secret known. 


A muffled voice of mystery, 




And know that thou art near. 


Who seeks the vanish'd bird 




Near the deserted nest and broken shell 1 


No brighter line of verdure 


Far thence, by us unheard, 


Follows thy lonely way ; 


He sings, rejoicing in the woods to dwell : 


No fairy moss, or lily's cup 


Thou of the sunshine born, 


Is freshen'd by thy play. 


Take the bright wings of morn ! 




Thy hope springs heavenward from yon ruin'd cell. 


The halcyon doth not seek thee, 




Her glorious wings to lave; 





Thou know'st no tint of the summer sky, 




Thou dark and hidden wave ! 


THE BELL AT SEA. 






Yet once will day behold thee, 


[The dangerous islet called the Bell Rock, on the coast of 


When to the mighty sea, 


Forfarshire, used formerly to be marked only by a bell, which 


Fresh bursting from their cavern'd veins, 


was so placed as to be swung by the motion of the waves, when 


Leap thy lone waters free. 


the tide rose above the rock. A lighthouse has since been 


erected there.] 






There wilt thou greet the sunshine 


When the tide's billowy swell 


For a moment, and be lost, 


Had reach'd its height, 


With all thy melancholy sounds, 


Then toll'd the rock's lone bell 


In the ocean's billowy host. 


Sternly by night. 






Oh ! art thou not, dark river ! 


Far over cliff and surge 


Like the fearful thoughts untold 


Swept the deep sound, 


Which haply, in the hush of night, 


Making each wild wind's dirge 


O'er many a soul have roll'd ] 


Still more profound. 






Those earth-born strange misgivings — 


Yet that funereal tone 


Who hath not felt their power 1 


The sailor bless'd, 


Yet who hath breathed them to his friend, 


Steering through darkness on 


E'en in his fondest hour ? 


With fearless breast. 






They hold no heart-communion, 


E'en so may we, that float 


They find no voice in song, 


On life's wide sea, 


They dimly follow far from earth 


Welcome each warning note, 


The grave's departed throng. 


Stern though it be ! x 






Wild is their course and lonely, 


1 It may be scarcely necessary to remind the reader, that 


And fruitless in man's breast ; 


the stealing of this hell by a Pirate forms the subject of 


They come and go, and leave no trace 


Southey's spirited ballad, " The Inchcape Rock." 


Of their mysterious guest. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



493 



Yet surely must their wanderings 
At length be like thy way ; 

Their shadows, as thy waters, lost 
In one bright flood of day ! 



THE SILENT MULTITUDE. 

" For we are many in our solitudes." — Lament of Tasso. 

A mighty and a mingled throng 

Were gather'd in one spot ; 
The dwellers of a thousand homes — 

Yet midst them voice was not. 

The soldier and his chief were there — 

The mother and her child : 
The friends, the sisters of one hearth — 

None spoke — none moved — none smiled. 

There lovers met, between whose lives 

Years had swept darkly by ; 
After that heart-sick hope deferr'd, 

They met — but silently. 

You might have heard the rustling leaf, 

The breeze's faintest sound, 
The shiver of an insect's wing, 

On that thick-peopled ground. 

Your voice to whispers would have died 

For the deep quiet's sake ; 
Your tread the softest moss have sought, 

Such stillness not to break. 

What held the countless multitude 

Bound in that spell of peace 1 
How could the ever-sounding life 

Amid so many cease 1 

Was it some pageant of the air — 

Some glory high above, 
That link'd and hush'd those human souls 

In reverential love ? 

Or did some burdening passion's weight 
Hang on their indrawn breath 1 

Awe — the pale awe that freezes words 1 
Fear — the strong fear of death ] 

A mightier thing— Death, Death himself 

Lay on each lonely heart ! 
Kindred were there — yet hermits all, 

Thousands — but each apart. 



THE ANTIQUE SEPULCHKE. 1 

[" Les sarcophages meme chez les anciens, ne rapellent 
que des id^es guerrieres ou riantes : on voit des jeux, des 
danses, represented en bas-relief sur les tombeaux." — Corinne.~] 

EVER-joyous band 
Of revellers amidst the southern vines ! 
On the pale marble, by some gifted hand, 

Fix'd in undying lines ! 

Thou, with the sculptured bowl, 
And thou, that wearest the immortal wreath, 
And thou, from whose young lip and flute the soul 

Of music seems to breathe ; 

And ye, luxuriant flowers ! 
Linking the dancers with your graceful ties, 
And cluster'd fruitage, born of sunny hours, 

Under Italian skies : 

Ye, that a thousand springs, 
And leafy summers with their odorous breath, 
May yet outlast, — what do ye there, bright things ! 

Mantling the place of death 1 

Of sunlight and soft air, 
And Dorian reeds, and myrtles ever green, 
Unto the heart a glowing thought ye bear ; — 

Why thus, where dust hath been 1 

Is it to show how slight 
The bound that severs festivals and tombs, 
Music and silence, roses and the blight, 

Crowns and sepulchral glooms 1 

Or, when the father laid 
Haply his child's pale ashes here to sleep, 
When the friend visited the cypress shade 

Flowers o'er the dead to heap ; 

Say if the mourners sought, 
In these rich images of summer mirth, [thought 
These wine-cups and gay wreaths, to lose the 

Of our last hour on earth ? 

Ye have no voice, no sound, 
Ye flutes and lyres ! to tell me what I seek : 
Silent ye are, light forms with vine-leaves crown'd, 

Yet to my soul ye speak. 

Alas ! for those that lay 
Down in the dust without their hope of old ! 
Backward they look'd on life's rich banquet-day, 

But all beyond was cold. 



494 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Every sweet wood-note then, 


Welcome the freshness round, 


And through the plane-trees every sunbeam's glow, 


And the gale that fans our brows ! 


And each glad murmur from the homes of men, 




Made it more hard to go. 


But rest more sweet and still 




Than ever nightfall gave, 


But we, when life grows dim, 


Our yearning hearts shall fill 


When its last melodies float o'er our way, 


In the world beyond the grave. 


Its changeful hues before us faintly swim, 




Its flitting lights decay ; — 


There shall no tempest blow, 




No scorching noontide heat ; 


E'en though we bid farewell 


There shall be no more snow, 1 


Unto the spring's blue skies and budding trees, 


No weary, wandering feet. 


Yet may we lift our hearts in hope to dwell 




Midst brighter things than these ; 


So we lift our trusting eyes 




From the hills our fathers trode, 


And think of deathless flowers, 


To the quiet of the skies, 


And of bright streams to glorious valleys given, 


To the Sabbath of our God. 


And know the while, how little dream of ours 




Can shadow forth of heaven. 


Come to the sunset tree ! 




The day is past and gone ; 




The woodman's axe lies free, 


EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE 


And the reaper's work is done. 


PEASANTS. 1 




Come to the sunset tree ! 




The day is past and gone ; 


THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. 


The woodman's axe lies free, 




And the reaper's work is done. 


Forget them not ! — though now their name 




Be but a mournful sound, 


The twilight star to heaven, 


Though by the hearth its utterance claim 


And the summer dew to flowers, 


A stillness round. 


And rest to us, is given 




By the cool, soft evening hours. 


Though for their sake this earth no more 




As it hath been may be, 


Sweet is the hour of rest ! 


And shadows, never mark'd before, 


Pleasant the wind's low sigh, 


Brood o'er each tree ; 


And the gleaming of the west, 




And the turf whereon we lie ; 


And though their image dim the sky, 




Yet, yet forget them not ! 


When the burden and the heat 


Nor, where their love and life went by, 


Of labour's task are o'er, 


Forsake the spot ! 


And kindly voices greet 




The tired one at his door. 


They have a breathing influence there, 




A charm, not elsewhere found ; 


Come to the sunset tree ! 


Sad — yet it sanctifies the air, 


The day is past and gone ; 


The stream, the ground. 


The woodman's axe lies free, 




And the reaper's work is done. 


Then, though the wind an alter'd tone 




Through the young foliage bear, 


Yes ! tuneful is the sound 


Though every flower, of something gone 


That dwells in whispering boughs ; 


A tinge may wear ; 


1 " The loved hour of repose is striking. Let us come 


2 " Wohl ihm, er ist hingegangen 


to the sunset tree."— See Captain Sherer's interesting 


Wo Jtein schnoe mehr ist." 


Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany. 


Schiller's Nadowessiche Todtenklage. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 495 


Oh ! fly it not ! No fruitless grief, 


A shepherd-king on Eastern plains— 


Thus in their presence felt, 


The patriarch walk'd with God. 


A record links to every leaf 




There, where they dwelt. 


And calmly, brightly, that pure life 




Melted from earth away ; 


Still trace the path which knew their tread, 


No cloud it knew, no parting strife, 


Still tend their garden-bower, 


No sorrowful decay : 


Still commune with the holy dead 


He bow'd him not, like all beside, 


In each lone hour ! 


Unto the spoiler's rod, 




But join'd at once the glorified, 


The holy dead ! — oh ! bless'd we are, 


Where angels walk with God ! 


That we may call them so, 




And to their image look afar 


So let us walk ! The night must come 


Through all our woe ! 


To us that comes to all ; 




We through the darkness must go home, 


Bless'd, that the things they loved on earth 


Hearing the trumpet's call. 


As relics we may hold, 


Closed is the path for ever more 


That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth 


Which without death he trode ; 


By springs untold ! 


Not so that way, wherein of yore 




His footsteps walk'd with God ! 


Bless'd, that a deep and chastening power 




Thus o'er our souls is given, 





If but to bird, or song, or flower, 




Yet all for heaven ! 


THE EOD OP AARON. 




NUMBERS, XVII. VIII. 





Was it the sigh of the southern gale 




That flush'd the almond bough 1 


HE WALKED WITH GOD. 


Brightest and first the young spring to hail, 




Still its red blossoms glow. 


GENESIS, V. XXIV. 






Was it the sunshine that woke its flowers 


[" These two little pieces," (" He walked with God," and 




" The Rod of Aaron,") says the author in one of her letters, 


With a kindling look of love 1 


" are part of a collection I think of forming, to be called Sacred 


Oh ! far and deep, and through hidden bowers, 


Lyrics. They are all to be on scriptural subjects, and to go 


That smile of heaven can rove ! 


through the most striking events of the Old Testament, to 




those far more deeply affecting ones of the New." Two 




others (" The Voice of God " and " The Fountain of Marah") 


No ! from the breeze and the living light 


are subjoined, as having been probably intended to form a 


Shut was the sapless rod ; 


part of the same series.] 


But it felt in the stillness a secret might, 




And thrill'd to the breath of God. 


He walk'd with God, in holy joy, 




While yet his days were few ; 


E'en so may that breath, like the vernal air, 


The deep, glad spirit of the boy 
To love and reverence grew. 


O'er our glad spirits move ; 
And all such things as are good and fair 


Whether, each nightly star to count, 
The ancient hills he trode, 


Be the blossoms, its track that prove ! 


Or sought the flowers by stream and fount — 




Alike he walk'd with God. 






THE VOICE OF GOD. 


The graver noon of manhood came, 




The full of cares and fears ; 


" I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid."— Gen. iii. 10. 


One voice was in his heart — the same 


Amidst the thrilling leaves, Thy voice 


It heard through childhood's years. 


At evening's fall drew near ; 


Amidst fair tents, and flocks, and swains, 


Father ! and did not man rejoice 


O'er his green pasture-sod, 


That blessed sound to hear 1 



496 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Did not his heart within him burn, 


When thou wouldst bathe his feet 


Touch'd by the solemn tone 1 


With odours richly sweet, 


Not so ! — for, never to return, 


And many a shower of woman's burning tear, 


Its purity was gone. 


And dry them with that hair, 




Brought low the dust to wear, 


Therefore, midst holy stream and bower, 


From the crown'd beauty of its festal year. 


His spirit shook with dread, 




And call'd the cedars, in that hour, 


Did He reject thee then, 


To veil his conscious head. 


While the sharp scorn of men 




On thy once bright and stately head was cast 1 


Oh ! in each wind, each fountain-flow, 


No ! from the Saviour's mien, 


Each whisper of the shade, 


A solemn light serene 


Grant me, my God ! thy voice to know, 


Bore to thy soul the peace of God at last. 


And not to be afraid ! 






For thee, their smiles no more 





Familiar faces wore ; 




Voices, once kind, had learn'd the stranger's tone: 


THE FOUNTAIN" OF MARAH. 


Who raised thee up, and bound 


" And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of 


Thy silent spirit's wound 1 — 


the waters of Marah, for they were bitter. 


He, from all guilt the stainless, He alone ! 


" And the people murmured against Moses, saying, What 




shall we drink ? 




" And he cried unto the Lord, and the Lord showed him a 


But which, erring child, 


tree, which when he had cast into the waters, the waters were 
made sweet." — Exodus, xv. 23-25. 


From home so long beguiled ! — 




Which of thine offerings won those words of heaven, 


Where is the tree the prophet threw 


That o'er the bruised reed, 


Into the bitter wave 1 


Condemn'd of earth to bleed, 


Left it no scion where it grew, 


In music pass'd, " Thy sins are all forgiven 1 " 


The thirsting soul to save ? 






Was it that perfume, fraught 


Hath nature lost the hidden power 


With balm and incense, brought 


Its precious foliage shed 1 


From the sweet woods of Araby the Blest ] 


Is there no distant Eastern bower 


Or that fast-flowing rain 


"With such sweet leaves o'erspread 


Of tears, which not in vain, 




To Him who scorn'd not tears, thy woes confess'd ] 


Nay, wherefore ask 1 — since gifts are ours 




Which yet may well imbue 


No ! not by these restored 


Earth's many troubled founts with showers 


Unto thy Father's board, 


Of heaven's own balmy dew. 


Thy peace, that kindled joy in heaven, was made; 




But, costlier in his eyes, 


Oh ! mingled with the cup of grief 


By that bless'd sacrifice, 


Let faith's deep spirit be ! 


Thy heart, thy full deep heart, before Him laid. 


And every prayer shall win a leaf 




From that bless'd healing tree ! 








THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN. 


THE PENITENT'S OFFERING. 






ON CHANTREY's MONUMENT IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL. 


ST LUKE, VII. XXXVII.-IX. 






[" The monument by Chan trey in Lichfield Cathedral, to 


Thou that with pallid cheek, 


the memory of the two children of Mrs Robinson, is one of 


And eyes in sadness meek, 


the most affecting works of art ever executed. He has given 


And faded locks that humbly swept the ground, 


a pathos to marble which one who trusts to his natural feel- 


From thy long wanderings won, 
Before the all-healing Son, 


ings, and admires and is touched only at their bidding, might 
have thought, from any previous experience, that it was out of 
the power of statuary to attain. The monument is executed 


Did'st bow thee to the earth — lost and found ! 


with all his beautiful simplicity and truth. The two children, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



497 



two little girls, are represented as lying in each other's arms, 
and, at first glance, appear to be sleeping : — 
' But something lies 
Too deep and still on those soft-sealed eyes.' 
It is while lying in the helplessness of innocent sleep that in- 
fancy and childhood are viewed with the most touching in- 
terest ; and this, and the loveliness of the children, the un- 
certainty of the expression at first view, the dim shadowing 
forth of that sleep from which they cannot be awakened— their 
hovering, as it were, upon the confines of life, as if they might 
still be recalled — all conspire to render the last feeling, that 
death is indeed before us, most deeply affecting. They were 
the only children of their mother, and she was a widow. A 
tablet commemorative of their father hangs over the monu- 
ment. This stands at the end of one of the side-aisles of the 
choir, where there is nothing to distract the attention from 
it, or weaken its effect. It may be contemplated in silence 
and alone. The inscription, in that subdued tone of strong 
feeling which seeks no relief in words, harmonizes with the 
character of the whole. It is as follows : — 
* Sacred to the Memory of 
Ellen Jane and Marianne, only children 
Of the late Eev. William Robinson, and Ellen Jane, his wife, 
Their affectionate Mother, 
In fond remembrance of their heaven-loved innocence, 
Consigns their resemblance to this sanctuary, 
In humble gratitude for the glorious assurance 

That ' of such is the kingdom of God.'l A. N."] 

Fair images of sleep, 

Hallow'd, and soft, and deep, 
On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies, 

Like moonlight on shut bells 

Of flowers in mossy dells, 
Fill'd with the hush of night and summer skies ! 

How many hearts have felt 

Your silent beauty melt 
Their strength to gushing tenderness away ! 

How many sudden tears, 

From depths of buried years 
All freshly bursting, having confess'd your sway ! 

How many eyes will shed 

Still, o'er your marble bed, [wrung — 

Such drops from memory's troubled fountains 

While hope hath blights to bear, 

While love breathes mortal air, 
While roses perish ere to glory sprung ! 

Yet from a voiceless home, 

If some sad mother come 
Fondly to linger o'er your lovely rest, 

As o'er the cheek's warm glow, 

And the sweet breathings low, 
Of babes that grew and faded on her breast ; 

If then the dove-like tone 
Of those faint murmurs gone, 

1 From The Offering, an American annual. 



O'er her sick sense too piercingly return ; 

If for the soft bright hair, 

And brow and bosom fair, 
And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn ; 

gentle forms, entwined 

Like tendrils, which the wind 
May wave, so clasp'd, but never can unlink ! 

Send from your calm profound 

A still, small voice — a sound 
Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink ! 

By all the pure, meek mind 

In your pale beauty shrined, 
By childhood's love — too bright a bloom to die 

O'er her worn spirit shed, 

fairest, holiest dead ! 
The faith, trust, joy, of immortality ! 



/ 



WOMAN AND FAME. 

Thou hast a charmed cup, Fame ! 

A draught that mantles high, 
And seems to lift this earthly frame 

Above mortality. 
Away ! to me— a woman — bring 
Sweet waters from affection's spring ! 

Thou hast green laurel leaves, that twine 

Into so proud a wreath, 
For that resplendent gift of thine 

Heroes have smiled in death : 
Give me from some kind hand a flower, 
The record of one happy hour ! 

Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone 

Can bid each life-pulse beat, 
As when a trumpet's note hath blown, 

Calling the brave to meet : 
But mine, let mine — a woman's breast, 
By words of home-born love be bless'd. 

A hollow sound is in thy song, 

A mockery in thine eye, 
To the sick heart that doth but long 

For aid, for sympathy — 
For kindly looks to cheer it on, 
For tender accents that are gone. 

Fame ! Fame ! thou canst not be the stay 

Unto the drooping reed, 
The cool, fresh fountain in the day 

Of the soul's feverish need : 



498 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Where must the lone one turn or flee ! — 


As to its place the flower-seed findeth wings, 


Not unto thee — oh ! not to thee ! 


So must love mount to heaven ! 





Vainly it shall not strive 


A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE. 


There on weak words to pour a stream of fire ; 




Thought unto thought shall kindling impulse give, 


Dreamer ! and wouldst thou know 


As light might wake a lyre. 


If love goes with us to the viewless bourne 1 




Wouldst thou bear hence th' unfathom'd source 


And oh ! its blessings there, 


of woe 


Shower'd like rich balsam forth on some dear head, 


In thy heart's lonely urn 1 


Powerless no more, a gift shall surely bear, 




A joy of sunlight shed. 


What hath it been to thee, 




That power, the dweller of thy secret breast 1 


Let me, then — let me dream 


A dove sent forth across a stormy sea, 


That love goes with us to the shore unknown ; 


Finding no place of rest : 


So o'er its burning tears a heavenly gleam 




In mercy shall be thrown ! 


A precious odour cast 




On a wild stream, that recklessly swept by ; 





A voice of music utter'd to the blast, 




And winning no reply. 


THE VOICE OF MUSIC. 


Even were such answer thine, [found, 




" Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound." 


Wouldst thou be bless'd ? Too sleepless, too pro- 


Childe Harold. 


Are the soul's hidden springs ; there is no line 




Their depth of love to sound. 


Whence is the might of thy master-spell 1 




Speak to me, voice of sweet sound ! and tell : 


Do not words faint and fail [power ? 


How canst thou wake, by one gentle breath, 


When thou wouldst fill them with that ocean's 


Passionate visions of love and death ? 


As thine own cheek, before high thoughts grows pale 




In some o'erwhelming hour. 


How call'st thou back, with a note, a sigh, 




Words and low tones from the days gone by — 


Doth not thy frail form sink 


A sunny glance, or a fond farewell 1 — 


Beneath the chain that binds thee to one spot, 


Speak to me, voice of sweet sound ! and tell. 


When thy heart strives, held down by many a link, 




Where thy beloved are not 1 


What is thy power, from the soul's deep spring 




In sudden gushes the tears to bring % 


Is not thy very soul 


Even midst the swells of thy festal glee, 


Oft in the gush of powerless blessing shed, 


Fountains of sorrow are stirr'd by thee ! 


Till a vain tenderness, beyond control, 




Bows down thy weary head 1 


Vain are those tears ! — vain and fruitless all — 




Showers that refresh not, yet still must fall ; 


And wouldst thou bear all this — 


For a purer bliss while the full heart burns, 


The burden and the shadow of thy life — 


For a brighter home while the spirit yearns ! 


To trouble the blue skies of cloudless bliss 




With earthly feelings' strife 1 


Something of mystery there surely dwells, 




Waiting thy touch, in our bosom-cells ; 


Not thus, not thus — oh, no ! 


Something that finds not its answer here — 


Not veil'd and mantled with dim clouds of care, 


A chain to be clasp'd in another sphere. 


That spirit of my soul should with me go 




To breathe celestial air. 


Therefore a current of sadness deep [sweep, 




Through the stream of thy triumphs is heard to 


But as the skylark springs 


Like a moan of the breeze through a summer sky — 


To its own sphere, where night afar is driven, 


Like a name of the dead when the windfoams high ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



4S9 



Yet speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught 
With vain remembrance and troubled thought ; 
Speak ! for thou tellest my soul that its birth 
Links it with regions more bright than earth. 



THE ANGEL'S GREETING. 

'■' Hark !— they whisper ! — Angels say, 
Sister spirit ! come away." Pope. 

Come to the land of peace ! 
Come where the tempest hath no longer sway, 
The shadow passes from the soul away, 

The sounds of weeping cease. 

Fear hath no dwelling there ! 
Come to the mingling of repose and love, 
Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove 

Through the celestial air. 

Come to the bright, and blest, 
And crown'd for ever ! Midst that shining band, 
Gather'd to heaven's own wreath from every land, 

Thy spirit shall find rest ! 

Thou hast been long alone : 
Come to thy mother ! On the Sabbath shore, 
The heart that rock'd thy childhood, back once more 

Shall take its wearied one. 

In silence wert thou left : 
Come to thy sisters ! Joyously again 
All the home-voices, blent in one sweet strain, 

Shall greet their long bereft. 

Over thine orphan head 
The storm hath swept, as o'er a willow's bough : 
Come to thy father ! It is finish'd now ; 

Thy tears have all been shed. 

In thy divine abode, 
Change finds no pathway, memory no dark trace, 
And, oh ! bright victory — death by love no place. 

Come, spirit ! to thy God. 



A FAREWELL TO WALES, 

FOR THE MELODY CALLED " THE ASH GROVE," ON LEAVING 
THAT COUNTRY WITH AIY CHILDREN. 

The sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear — 
Farewell, and a blessing be with thee, green land ! 



On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure moun- 
tain air, [hand, 
On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel's free 
From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed, 
As I leave thee, green land of my home and my dead ! 

I bless thee ! — yet not for the beauty which dwells 
In the heart of thy hills, on the rocks of thy shore; 
And not for the memory set deep in thy dells, 
Of the bard and the hero, the mighty of yore ; 
And not for thy songs of those proud ages fled — 
Green land, poet-land of my home and my dead ! 

I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat 
Where'er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies ; 
For thy cottage-hearths burning the stranger to 

greet, [kind eyes ! 

For the soul that shines forth from thy children's 
May the blessing, like sunshine, about thee be 

spread, [dead ! 

Green land of my childhood, my home, and my 

[" It was about this time (1828) that ' The Farewell to 
Wales ' was written. 

' I bless thee for all the true bosoms that beat 
Where'er a low hamlet smiles up to thy skies ; 
For thy cottage-hearths burning the stranger to greet, 
For the soul that shines forth from thy children's kind eyes.' 

MrsHemans always spoke of this 'land of her childhood, 
her home, and her dead,' with interest and affection. When 
she sailed from its shore, she covered her face in her cloak, 
desiring her boys to tell her when the hills were out of sight, 
that she might then look up. She would often, too, refer to 
the pain she had suffered — in addition to the sorrow of parting 
from her kindred and friends, for the first time since her birth, 
to make actual acquaintance with the daily cares of life — 
upon taking leave of the simple and homely peasantry of the 
neighbourhood, by whom she was beloved with that old- 
fashioned heartiness which yet lingers in some of the nooks 
and remote places of England. Many of them rushed forward 
to touch the posts of the gate through which the poetess had 
passed ; and when, three years afterwards, she paid a visit 
to St Asaph, came and wept over her, and entreated her to 
return and make her home among them again." — Chorley's 
Memorials of Mrs Hermans, p. 206-7.] 



IMPROMPTU LINES, 

ADDRESSED TO MISS F. A. L., ON RECEIVING FROM HER 
SOME FLOWERS WHEN CONFINED BY ILLNESS. 

Ye tell me not of birds and bees, 

Not of the summer's murmuring trees, 

Not of the streams and woodland bowers — 

A sweeter tale is yours, fair flowers ! 

Glad tidings to my couch ye bring, 

Of one still bright, still flowing spring — 



500 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



A fount of kindness ever new, 

In a friend's heart, the good and true. 



A PAETING SONG. 

" O mes amis ! rapellez-vous quelquefois mes vers ! mon ame y est 
empreinte. "— Corinne. 

When will ye think of me, my friends ? 

When will ye think of me 1 — 
When the last red light, the farewell of day, 
From the rock and the river is passing away — 
When the air with a deepening hush is fraught, 
And the heart grows burden'd with tender thought, 
Then let it be ! 

When will ye think of me, kind friends ? 

When will ye think of me ? — 
When the rose of the rich midsummer-time 
Is fill'd with the hues of its glorious prime — 
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled, 
From the walks where my footsteps no more may 
Then let it be ! [tread- 

When will ye think of me, sweet friends ? 

When will ye think of me 1 — ■ 
When the sudden tears o'erflow your eye 
At the sound of some olden melody — 
When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream, 
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream — 
Then let it be ! 

Thus let my memory be with you, friends ! 

Thus ever think of me ! 
Kindly and gently, but as of one 
For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone — 
As of a bird from a chain unbound, 
As of a wanderer whose home is found — 
So let it be. 

[" The description of her feelings, when the actual parting 
took place, proves that there was no exaggeration in the 
affectionate sadness of her ' Farewell to Wales,' and the 
blessing she thus fondly left with it : — 

' The sound of thy streams in my spirit I bear— 

Farewell ! and a blessing be with thee, green land ! 
On thy hearths, on thy halls, on thy pure mountain air, 

On the chords of the harp, and the minstrel's free hand, 
From the love of my soul with my tears it is shed, 
As I leave thee, green land of my home and my dead ! ' 

' Oh ! that Tuesday morning !/ (thus she wrote in her 
first letter to St Asaph.) ' I literally covered my face all the 
way from Bronwylfa, until the boys told me we had passed 
the Clwyd range of hills. Then something of the bitterness 
was over. 

' Miss P. met me at Bagillt, and on board the packet we 



found Mr D., who was kinder to me than I can possibly tell 
you. He really watched over me all the way with a care I 
shall not soon forget ; and notwithstanding all you may say 
of female protection, I felt that of a gentleman to be a great 
comfort, for we had a difficult and disagreeable landing. As 
we entered the port, a vessel, coming out, struck against 
ours, and caused a great concussion : there was no danger, I 
imagine, but it gave one a faint notion of what the meeting 
must have been between the Comet and the Aire. We had 
a pretty sight on the water ; another packet, loaded, clustered 
all over with blue-coat boys, sailed past. It was their annual 
holiday, on which they have a water excursion ; and as they 
went by, all the little fellows waved their hats, and sent forth 
three cheers, which made our vessel ring again. Only imagine 
a ship-load of happiness ! That word reminds me of my own 
boys, who are enjoying themselves greatly. Of myself, what 

can I say to you ? When I look back on the short 

time that has elapsed since I left this place, I am astonished ; 
I seem in it to have lived an age of deep, strong, vain feeling." 
— Memoir, p. 151-3.] 



WE RETURN NO MORE I 1 

" When I stood beneath the fresh green tree, 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise ; and the Spring 
Come forth, her work of gladness to contrive, 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turn d from all she brought to all she could not bring.' 

Childe Harold. 

" We return ! — we return ! — we return no more !" 
So comes the song to the mountain shore, 
From those that are leaving their Highland home 
For a world far over the blue sea's foam : 
" We return no more ! " and through cave and dell 
Mournfully wanders that wild farewell. 

" We return ! — we return ! — we return no more ! " 
So breathe sad voices our spirits o'er ; 
Murmuring up from the depths of the heart, 
Where lovely things with their light depart : 
And the inborn sound hath a prophet's tone, 
And we feel that a joy is for ever gone. 

"We return ! — we return ! — 'We return no more !" 
Is it heard when the days of flowers are o'er ? 
When the passionate soul of the night-bird's lay 
Hath died from the summer woods away 1 
When the glory from sunset's robe hath pass'd, 
Or the leaves are borne on the rushing blast ? 

No ! It is not the rose that returns no more ; — 
A breath of spring shall its bloom restore ; 



1 Ha til J— ha til !—ha til mi tulidlel—" we return !— we 
return ! — we return no more ! " — the burden of the Highland 
song of emigration. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



501 



And it is not the voice that o'erflows the bowers 
With a stream of love through the starry hours ; 
Nor is it the crimson of sunset hues, [strews. 
Nor the frail flush'd leaves which the wild wind 

" We return ! — we return ! — we return no more!" 
Doth the bird sing thus from a brighter shore % 
Those wings that follow the southern breeze, 
Float they not homeward o'er vernal seas 1 
Yes! from the lands of the vine and palm [calm. 
They come, with the sunshine, when waves grow 

" But we ! — we return ! — we return no more ! " 

The heart's young dreams, when their spring is o'er; 

The love it hath pour'd so freely forth — 

The boundless trust in ideal worth ; 

The faith in affection — deep, fond, yet vain — 

These are the lost that return not again ! 



4 TO A WANDERING FEMALE SINGER. 

Thou hast loved and thou hast suffer'd ! 

Unto feeling deep and strong, 
Thou hast trembled like a harp's frail string — 

I know it by thy song ! 

Thou hast loved — it may be vainly — 

But well — oh, but too well ! 
Thou hast suffer'd all that woman's breast 

May bear — but must not tell. 

Thou hast wept, and thou hast parted, 

Thou hast been forsaken long, 
Thou hast watch'd for steps that came not back- 

I know it by thy song ! 

By the low, clear silvery gushing 

Of its music from thy breast ; 
By the quivering of its flute-like swell — 

A sound of the heart's unrest ; 

By its fond and plaintive lingering 

On each word of grief so long. 
Oh ! thou hast loved and suffer'd much— 

I know it by thy song ! 



LIGHTS AND SHADES. 

The gloomiest day hath gleams of light : 
The darkest wave hath light foam near it ; 



And twinkles through the cloudiest night 
Some solitary star to cheer it. 

The gloomiest soul is not all gloom ; 

The saddest heart is not all sadness ; 
And sweetly o'er the darkest doom 

There shines some lingering beam of gladness. 

Despair is never quite despair ; 

Nor life nor death the future closes ; 
And round the shadowy brow of Care 

Will Hope and Fancy twine their roses. 

[These spirited and graceful stanzas appeared in the " For- 
get-me-Not " for 1829, and are here for the first time ad- 
mitted into the general collection of the author's works. In 
all probability, they are an early effusion, and poured forth 
when the poetry of Moore was fresh in her mind.] 



THE PALMER. 

"The faded palm-branch in his hand 
Show'd pilgrim from the Holy Land." Scott. 

Art thou come from the far-off land at last 1 
Thou that hast wander'd long ! [pass'd 

Thou art come to a home whence the smile hath 
With the merry voice of song. 

For the sunny glance and the bounding heart 

Thou wilt seek — but all are gone ; 
They are parted, e'en as waters part, 

To meet in the deep alone ! 

And thou — from thy lip is fled the glow, 
From thine eye the light of morn ; 

And the shades of thought o'erhang thy brow, 
And thy cheek with life is worn. 

Say what hast thou brought from the distant shore 

For thy wasted youth to pay ] 
Hast thou treasure to win thee joys once more ] 

Hast thou vassals to smooth thy way 1 

" I have brought but the palm-branch in my hand, 
Yet I call not my bright youth lost ! 

I have won but high thought in the Holy Land, 
Yet I count not too dear the cost ! 

" I look on the leaves of the deathless tree — 

These records of my track ; 
And better than youth in its flush of glee, 

Are the memories they give me back ! 



502 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


" They speak of toil, and of high emprise, 


" And by the brook and in the glade 


As in words of solemn cheer ; 


Are all our wanderings o'er ? 


They speak of lonely victories 


Oh ! while my brother with me play'd, 


O'er pain, and doubt, and fear. 


Would I had loved him more!" 


" They speak of scenes which have now become 




Bright pictures in my breast ; 




Where my spirit finds a glorious home, 




And the love of my heart can rest. 


TO THE NEW-BORN. 1 


" The colours pass not from these away, 


A blessing on thy head, thou child of many hopes 


Like tints of shower or sun ; 


and fears ! 


Oh ! beyond all treasures that know decay, 


A rainbow-welcome thine hath been, of mingled 


Is the wealth my soul hath won ! 


smiles and tears. 




Thy father greets thee unto life with a full and 


" A rich light thence o'er my life's decline, 


chasten'd heart, 


An inborn light is cast ; 


For a solemn gift from God thou comest, all pre- 


For the sake of the palm from the holy shrine, 


cious as thou art ! 


I bewail not my bright days past ! 






I see thee not asleep, fair boy ! upon thy mother's 




breast, 




Yet well I know how guarded there shall be thy 




rosy rest ; 


vTHE CHILD'S FIEST GEIEF. 


And how her soul with love, and prayer, and 




gladness, will o'erflow, 


Oh ! call my brother back to me ! 


While bending o'er thy soft-seal'd eyes, thou dear 


I cannot play alone ; 


one ! well I know. 


The summer comes with flower and bee — 




"Where is my brother gone ] 


A blessing on thy gentle head ! and bless'd thou 




art in truth, 


" The butterfly is glancing bright 


For a home where God is felt awaits thy child- 


Across the sunbeam's track ; 


hood and thy youth : 


I care not now to chase its flight — 


Around thee pure and holy thoughts shall dwell 


Oh ! call my brother back ! 


as light and air, 




And steal unto thine heart, and wake the germs 


" The flowers run wild — the flowers we sow'd 


now folded there. 


Around our garden tree ; 




Our vine is drooping with its load— 


Smile on thy mother ! while she feels that unto 


Oh ! call him back to me ! " 


her is given, 




In that young day-spring glance, the pledge of a 


" He would not hear thy voice, fair child ! 


soul to rear for heaven ! 


He may not come to thee; 


Smile ! and sweet peace be o'er thy sleep, joy 


The face that once like spring-time smiled, 


o'er thy wakening shed ! 


On earth no more thou'lt see. 


Blessings and blessings evermore, fair boy ! upon 




thy head ! 


"A rose's brief, bright life of joy, 




Such unto him was given : 





Go — thou must play alone, my boy ! 




Thy brother is in heaven." 


THE DEATH-SONG OF ALCESTIS. 


" And has he left his birds and flowers ; 


She came forth in her bridal robes array'd, 


And must I call in vain 1 


And midst the graceful statues, round the hall 


And through the long, long summer hours, 




Will he not come again 1 


1 Addressed to the child of her eldest brother. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



503 



Shedding the calm of their celestial mien, 
Stood pale yet proudly beautiful as they : 
Flowers in her bosom, and the star-like gleam 
Of jewels trembling from her braided hair, 
And death upon her brow ! — but glorious death ! 
Her own heart's choice, the token and the seal 
Of love, o'ermastering love ; which, till that hour, 
Almost an anguish in the brooding weight 
Of its unutterable tenderness, 
Had burden'd her full soul. But now, oh ! now, 
Its time was come — and from the spirit's depths, 
The passion and the mighty melody 
Of its immortal voice in triumph broke, 
Like a strong rushing wind ! 

The soft pure air 
Came floating through that hall — the Grecian air, 
Laden with music — flute-notes from the vales, 
Echoes of song — the last sweet sounds of life 
And the glad sunshine of the golden clime 
Stream' d, as a royal mantle, round her form — 
The glorified of love ! But she — she look'd 
Only on him for whom 'twas joy to die, 
Deep — deepest, holiest joy ! Or if a thought 
Of the warm sunlight, and the scented breeze, 
And the sweet Dorian songs, o'erswept the tide 
Of her unswerving soul — 'twas but a thought 
That own'd the summer loveliness of life 
For him a worthy offering ! So she stood, 
Wrapt in bright silence, as entranced awhile ; 
Till her eye kindled, and her quivering frame 
With the swift breeze of inspiration shook, 
As the pale priestess trembles to the breath 
Of inborn oracles ! Then flush'd her cheek, 
And all the triumph, all the agony, 
Borne on the battling waves of love and death, 
All from her woman's heart, in sudden song, 
Burst like a fount of fire. 

" I go, I go ! 
Thou sun ! thou golden sun ! I go 

Far from thy light to dwell : 
Thou shalt not find my place below, 
Dim is that world — bright sun of Greece, farewell ! 

" The laurel and the glorious rose 

Thy glad beam yet may see; 
But where no purple summer glows, 
O'er the dark wave / haste from them and thee. 

" Yet doth my spirit faint to part ] 

— I mourn thee not, sun ! 
Joy, solemn joy, o'erflows my heart : 
Sing me triumphal songs ! — my crown is won ! 



" Let not a voice of weeping rise — 

My heart is girt with power ! 
Let the green earth and festal skies 
Laugh, as to grace a conqueror's closing hour ! 

" For thee, for thee, my bosom's lord ! 

Thee, my soul's loved ! I die ; 

Thine is the torch of life restored, 

Mine, mine the rapture, mine the victory ! 

" Now may the boundless love, that lay 

Unfathom'd still before, 
In one consuming burst find way — 
In one bright flood all, all its riches pour ! 

" Thou know'st, thou know'st what love is now J 

Its glory and its might — 
Are they not written on my brow 1 
And will that image ever quit thy sight 1 

" No ! deathless in thy faithful breast, 

There shall my memory keep 
Its own bright altar-place of rest, 
While o'er my grave the cypress branches weep. 

" Oh, the glad light !— the light is fair, 

The soft breeze warm and free ; 
And rich notes fill the scented air, 
And all are gifts — my love's last gifts to thee ! 

" Take me to thy warm heart once more ! 

Night falls — my pulse beats low : 
Seek not to quicken, to restore — 
Joy is in every pang. I go, I go ! 

" I feel thy tears, I feel thy breath, 

I meet thy fond look still ; 
Keen is the strife of love and death ; 
Faint and yet fainter grows my bosom's thrill. 

" Yet swells the tide of rapture strong, 

Though mists o'ershade mine eye ! 
— Sing, Paean ! sing a conqueror's song ! 
For thee, for thee, my spirit's lord, I die ! " 



THE HOME OF LOVE. 

Thou mov'st in visions, Love ! Around thy way, 
E'en through this world's rough path and changeful 
For ever floats a gleam — [day, 

Not from the realms of moonlight or the mom, 



504 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



But thine own soul's illumined chambers born — 
The colouring of a dream ! 

Love ! shall I read thy dream 1 Oh ! is it not 
All of some sheltering wood-embosom'd spot — 

A bower for thee and thine ? 
Yes ! lone and lowly is that home ; yet there 
Something of heaven in the transparent air 

Makes every flower divine. 

Something that mellows and that glorifies, 
Breathes o'er it ever from the tender skies, 

As o'er some blessed isle ; 
E'en like the soft and spiritual glow 
Kindling rich woods, whereon th' ethereal bow 

Sleeps lovingly awhile. 

The very whispers of the wind have there 
A flute-like harmony, that seems to bear 

Greeting from some bright shore, 
Where none have said farewell ! — where no decay 
Lends the faint crimson to the dying day ; 

Where the storm's might is o'er. 

And there thou dreamest of Elysian rest, 
In the deep sanctuary of one true breast 

Hidden from earthly ill : [whose sound 
There wouldst thou watch the homeward step, 
Wakening all nature to sweet echoes round, 

Thine inmost soul can thrill. 

There by the hearth should many a glorious page, 
From mind to mind the immortal heritage, 

For thee its treasures pour ; 
Or music's voice at vesper hours be heard, 
Or dearer interchange of playful word, 

Affection's household lore. 

And the rich unison of mingled prayer, 
The melody of hearts in heavenly air, 

Thence duly should arise ; 
Lifting th' eternal hope, th' adoring breath, 
Of spirits, not to be disjoin'd by death, 

Up to the starry skies. 

There, dost thou well believe, no storm should come 
To mar the stillness of that angel-home ; 

There should thy slumbers be 
Weigh'd down with honey-dew, serenely bless'd, 
Like theirs who first in Eden's grove took rest 

Under some balmy tree. 

Love ! Love ! thou passionate in joy and woe ! 
And- canst thou hope for cloudless peace below — 



Here, where bright things must die 1 
thou ! that, wildly worshipping, dost shed 
On the frail altar of a mortal head 

Gifts of infinity! 

Thou must be still a trembler, fearful Love ! 
Danger seems gathering from beneath, above, 

Still round thy precious things ; 
Thy stately pine-tree, or thy gracious rose, 
In their sweet shade can yield thee no repose, 

Here, where the blight hath wings. 

And as a flower, with some fine sense imbued, 
To shrink before the wind's vicissitude, 

So in thy prescient breast 
Are lyre-strings quivering with prophetic thrill 
To the low footstep of each coming ill : 

Oh ! canst thou dream of rest ? 

Bear up thy dream ! thou mighty and thou weak ! 
Heart, strong as death, yet as a reed to break — 

As a flame, tempest-sway'd ! 
He that sits calm on high is yet the source 
Whence thy soul's current hath its troubled course, 

He that great deep hath made ! 

Will He not pity 1 — He whose searching eye 
Beads all the secrets of thine agony ? — 

Oh ! pray to be forgiven 
Thy fond idolatry, thy blind excess, 
And seek with Him that bower of blessedness. 

Love ! thy sole home is heaven ! 



BOOKS AND FLOWERS. 



" la vue d'une fleur caresse mon imagination, et flattemes sens a un 
point inexprimable. Sous le tranquille abri du toit paternel j'etais 
nourrie des l'enfance avec des fleurs et des livres ; dans l'etroite 
enceinte d'une prison, au milieu des fers imposies par la tyrannie, 
j'oublie Tinjustice des hommes, leurs sottises et mes maux, avee des 
livres et des fleurs." 



Come ! let me make a sunny realm around thee 
Of thought and beauty ! Here are books and 
flowers, [thee — 

With spells to loose the fetter which hath bound 
The ravel'd coil of this world's feverish hours. 

The soul of song is in these deathless pages, 
Even as the odour in the flower enshrined ; 

Here the crown'd spirits of departed ages 
Have left the silent melodies of mind. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



505 



Their thoughts, that strove with time, and change, 
and anguish, [rest, 

For some high place where faith her wing might 
Are burning here — aflame that may not languish — 

Still pointing upward to that bright hill's crest ! 

Their grief, the veil'd infinity exploring 

For treasures lost, is here ; — their boundless love, 

Its mighty streams of gentleness outpouring 
On all things round, and clasping all above. 

And the bright beings, their own heart's creations, 
Bright, yet all human, here are breathing still ; 

Conflicts, and agonies, and exultations 
Are here, and victories of prevailing will ! 

Listen! oh, listen! let their high words cheer thee! 

Their swan-like music ringing through all woes ; 
Let my voice bring their holy influence near thee — 

The Elysian air of their divine repose ! 

Or would'st thou turn to earth 1 Not earth all 
furrow'd 

By the old traces of man's toil and care, 
But the green peaceful world that never sorrow'd, 

The world of leaves, and dews, and summer air ! 

Look on these flowers ! as o'er an altar shedding, 
O'er Milton's page, soft light from colour'd urns ! 

They are the links, man's heart to nature wedding, 
When to her breast the prodigal returns. 

They are from lone wild places, forest dingles, 
Fresh banks of many alow-voiced hidden stream, 

Where the sweet star of eve looks down and mingles 
Faint lustre with the water-lily's gleam. 

They are from where the soft winds play in gladness, 
Covering the turf with flowery blossom-showers ; 

— Too richly dower'd, friend ! are we for sad- 
ness — 
Look on an empire — mind and nature — ours ! 

[" The ' brightly associated hours ' she passed with Mrs 
Lawrence, have been alluded to by Mrs Hemans, in the dedi- 
cation to the ' National Lyrics,' and recorded by ' her 
friend, and the sister of her friend, Colonel D'Aguilar,' in her 
own affectionate ' Recollections.' The ' Books and Flowers ' 
of Wavertree Hall were ever fondly identified with their dear 
mistress ; and, years after the enjoyment of them had passed 
away from all senses but memory, she who was then herself, 
too, ' passing away,' thus tenderly alluded to them from her 
sick couch at Redesdale : — ' When I write to you, my ima- 
gination always brightens, and pleasant thoughts of lovely 
flowers, and dear old books, and strains of antique Italian 
melody, come floating over me, as Bacon says the rich scents 
go ' to and fro like music in the air.' "] 



FOR A PICTURE OF ST CECILIA ATTENDED 
BY ANGELS. 

" How rich that forehead's calm expanse ! 
How bright that heaven-directed glance ! 
— Waft her to glory, winged powers ! 

Ere sorrow be renewed, 
And intercourse with mortal hours 

Bring back a humbler mood ! " Wokdsworth. 

How can that eye, with inspiration beaming, 
Wear yet so deep a calm ? child of song ! 

Is not the music-land a world of dreaming, 
Where forms of sad, bewildering beauty throng? 

Hath it not sounds from voices long departed ? 

Echoes of tones that rung in childhood's ear % 
Low haunting whispers, which the weary-hearted, 

Stealing midst crowds away, have wept to hear? 

No, not to thee ! Thy spirit, meek, yet queenly, 
On its own starry height, beyond all this, 

Floating triumphantly and yet serenely, [bliss. 
Breathes no faint under-tone through songs of 

Say by what strain, through cloudless ether swell- 
ing, 
Thou hast drawn down those wanderers from 
the skies 1 
Bright guests ! even such as left of yore their 
dwelling 
For the deep cedar-shades of Paradise ! 

What strain ? Oh ! not the nightingale's, when, 
showering 

Her own heart's life-drops on the burning lay, 
She stirs the young woods in the days of flowering, 

And pours her strength, but not her grief, away: 

And not the exile's — when, midst lonely billows, 
He wakes the Alpine notes his mother sung, 

Or blends them with the sigh of alien willows, 
Where, murmuring to the wind, his harp is hung : 

And not the pilgrim's — though his thoughts be holy, 
And sweet his ave-song when day grows dim ; 

Yet, as he journeys, pensively and slowly, 

Something of sadness floats through that low 
hymn. 

But thou ! — the spirit which at eve is filling 
All the hush' d air and reverential sky — 

Founts, leaves, and flowers, with solemn rapture 
thrilling — • 
This is the soul of thy rich harmony. 



506 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



This bears up high those breathings of devotion 
Wherein the currents of thy heart gush free ; 

Therefore no world of sad and vain emotion 
Is the dream-haunted music-land for thee. 



THE BRIGAND LEADEE AND HIS WIFE. 



SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF EASTLAKE S. 

Dark chieftain of the heath and height ! 
Wild feaster on the hills by night ! 
See'st thou the stormy sunset's glow 
Flung back by glancing spears below ? 
Now for one strife of stern despair ! 
The foe hath track'd thee to thy lair. 

Thou, against whom the voice of blood 
Hath risen from rock and lonely wood ; 
And in whose dreams a moan should be, 
Not of the water, nor the tree ; 
Haply thine own last hour is nigh, — 
Yet shalt thou not forsaken die. 

There's one that pale beside thee stands, 
More true than all thy mountain-bands ! 
She will not shrink in doubt and dread 
When the balls whistle round thy head : 
Nor leave thee, though thy closing eye 
No longer may to hers reply. 

Oh ! many a soft and quiet grace 
Hath faded from her form and face ; 
And many a thought, the fitting guest 
Of woman's meek, religious breast, 
Hath perish'd in her wanderings wide, 
Through the deep forests by thy side. 

Yet, mournfully surviving all, 

A flower upon a ruin's wall — 

A friendless thing, whose lot is cast 

Of lovely ones to be the last — 

Sad, but unchanged through good and ill, 

Thine is her lone devotion still. 

And oh ! not wholly lost the heart 
Where that undying love hath part ; 
Not worthless all, though far and long 
From home estranged, and guided wrong : 
Yet may its depths by heaven be stirr'd, 
Its prayer for thee be pour'd and heard ! 



THE CHILD'S RETURN FROM THE 
WOODLANDS. 

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE'S. 



All good and guiltless as thou art, 

Some transient griefs will touch thy heart — 

Griefs that along thy alter'd face 

Will breathe a more subduing grace, 

Than even those looks of joy that lie 

On the soft cheek of infancy." Wilson. 



Hast thou been in the woods with the honey-bee? 
Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free 1 ? 
With the hare through the copses and dingles wild? 
With the butterfly over the heath, fair child? 
Yes ! the light fall of thy bounding feet 
Hath not startled the wren from her mossy seat : 
Yet hast thou ranged the green forest-dells, 
And brought back a treasure of buds and bells. 

Thou know'st not the sweetness, by antique song 
Breathed o'er the names of that flowery throng : 
The woodbine, the primrose, the violet dim, 
The lily that gleams by the fountain's brim ; 
These are old words, that have made each grove 
A dreaming haunt for romance and love — 
Each sunny bank, where faint odours lie, 
A place for the gushings of poesy. 

Thou know'st not the light wherewith fairy lore 
Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o'er : 
Enough for thee are the dews that sleep 
Like hidden gems in the flower-urns deep ; 
Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell 
Midst the gold of the cowslip's perfumed cell ; . 
And the scent by the blossoming sweetbriers shed, 
And thebeauty that bows the wood-hyacinth's head. 

happy child ! in thy fawn-like glee, 
What is remembrance or thought to thee ? 
Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spring, 
O'er thy green pathway their colours fling ; 
Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon — 
What if to droop and to perish soon ? 
Nature hath mines of such wealth — and thou 
Never will prize its delights as now ! 

For a day is coming to quell the tone 
That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one! 
And to dim thy brow with a touch of care, 
Under the gloss of its clustering hair ; 
And to tame the flash of thy cloudless eyes 
Into the stillness of autumn skies ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 507 


And to teach thee that grief hath her needful part 


That yet my bosom with light can fill, 


Midst the hidden things of each human heart. 


Unquench'd, and undim'd by death. 


Yet shall we mourn, gentle child ! for this 1 


" From the pictured smile I will not turn, 


Life hath enough of yet holier bliss ! 


Though sadly now it shine ; 


Such be thy portion ! — the bliss to look, 


Nor quit the shades that in whispers mourn 


With a reverent spirit, through nature's book ; 


For the step once link'd with mine ; 


By fount, by forest, by river's line, 




To track the paths of a love divine ; 


" Nor shut mine ear to the song of old, 


To read its deep meanings — to see and hear 


Though its notes the pang renew. 


God in earth's garden — and not to fear ! 


— Such memories deep in my heart I hold, 




To keep it pure and true. 





" By the holy instinct of my heart, 




By the hope that bears me on, 


THE FAITH OF LOVE. 


I have still my own undying part 




In the deep affection gone. 


Thou hast watch'd beside the bed of death, 




fearless human Love ! 


" By the presence that about me seems 


Thy lip received the last, faint breath, 


Through night and day to dwell, 


Ere the spirit fled above. 


Voice of vain bodings and fearful dreams ! 




— I have breathed no last farewell !" 


Thy prayer was heard by the parting bier, 




In a low and farewell tone ; 


— 


Thou hast given the grave both flower and tear — 




— Love ! thy task is done. 


THE SISTER'S DREAM. 


Then turn thee from each pleasant spot 

Where thou wert wont to rove ; 
For there the friend of thy soul is not, 


[Suggested by a picture in which a young girl is represented 
as sleeping, and visited during her slumbers by the spirits of 
her departed sisters.] 


Nor the joy of thy youth, Love ! 


She sleeps ! — but not the free and sunny sleep 




That lightly on the brow of childhood lies : 


Thou wilt meet but mournful Memory there; 


Though happy be her rest, and soft, and deep, 


Her dreams in the grove she weaves, 


Yet, ere it sank upon her shadow'd eyes, 


With echoes filling the summer air, 


Thoughts of past scenes and kindred graves o'er< 


With sighs the trembling leaves. 


swept 




Her soul's meek stillness — she had pray'd and wept. 


Then turn thee to the world again, 




From those dim, haunted bowers, 


And now in visions to her couch they come, 


And shut thine ear to the wild, sweet strain 


The early lost— the beautiful — the dead ! 


That tells of vanish'd hours. 


That unto her bequeath'd a mournful home, 




Whence with their voices all sweet laughter fled 


And wear not on thine aching heart 


They rise — the sisters of her youth arise, 


The image of the dead ; 


As from the world where no frail blossom dies. 


For the tie is rent that gave thee part 




In the gladness its beauty shed. 


And well the sleeper knows them not of earth — 




Not as they were when binding up the flowers, 


And gaze on the pictured smile no more 


Telling wild legends round the winter-hearth, 


That thus can life outlast : 


Braiding their long, fair hair for festal hours : 


All between parted souls is o'er. — ■ 


These things are past— a spiritual gleam, 


Love ! Love ! forget the past ! 


A solemn glory, robes them in that dream. 


" Voice of vain boding ! away, be still ! 


Yet, if the glee of life's fresh budding years 


Strive not against the faith 


In those pure aspects may no more be read, 



508 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Thence, too, hath sorrow melted — and the tears 
Which o'er their mother's holy dust they shed, 
Are all effaced. There earth hath left no sign 
Save its deep love, still touching every line. 

But oh ! more soft, more tender — breathing more 
A thought of pity, than in vanish'd days ! 

While, hovering silently and brightly o'er 

The lone one's head, they meet her spirit's gaze 

With their immortal eyes, that seem to say, 

" Yet, sister ! yet we love thee — come away !" 

'Twill fade, the radiant dream ! And will she not 
Wake with more painful yearning at her heart 1 

Will not her home seem yet a lonelier spot, [part 1 
Her task more sad, when those bright shadows 

And the green summer after them look dim, 

And sorrow's tone be in the bird's wild hymn ? 

But let her hope be strong, and let the dead 
Visit her soul in heaven's calm beauty still ; 

Be their names utter'd, be their memory spread 
Yet round the place they never more may fill ! 

All is not over with earth's broken tie — 

Where, where should sisters love, if not on high 1 



A FAREWELL TO ABBOTSFORD. 

[These lines were given to Sir Walter Scott, at the gate of 
Abbotsford, in the summer of 1829. He was then apparently 
in the vigour of an existence whose energies promised long 
continuance ; and the glance of his quick, smiling eye, and the 
very sound of his kindly voice, seemed to kindle the gladness 
of his own sunny and benignant spirit in all who had the 
happiness of approaching him.] 

Home of the gifted ! fare thee well, 

And a blessing on thee rest ! 
While the heather waves its purple bell 

O'er moor and mountain-crest ; 
While stream to stream around thee calls, 

And braes with broom are drest, 
Glad be the harping in thy halls — 

A blessing on thee rest ! 

While the high voice from thee sent forth 

Bids rock and cairn reply, 
Wakening the spirits of the North 

Like a chieftain's gathering-cry ; 
While its deep master-tones hold sway 

As a king's o'er every breast, 
Home of the Legend and the Lay ! 

A blessing on thee rest ! 



Joy to thy hearth, and board, and bower ! 

Long honours to thy line ! 
And hearts of proof, and hands of power, 

And bright names worthy thine ! 
By the merry step of childhood, still 

May thy free sward be prest ! 
— While one proud pulse in the land can thrill, 

A blessing on thee rest ! 



O'CONNOR'S CHILD. 



[This piece was suggested by a picture in the possession of 
Mrs Lawrence of Wavertree Hall. It represents the ' ' Hero's 
Child" of Campbell's Poem, seated beside a solitary tomb of 
rock, marked with a cross, in a wild and desert place. A 
tempest seems gathering in the angry skies above her, but the 
attitude of the drooping figure expresses the utter carelessness 
of desolation, and the countenance speaks of entire abstrac- 
tion from all external objects. A bow and quiver lie beside 
her, amongst the weeds and wild-flowers of the desert.] 

" I fled the home of grief 
At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall, 
I found the helmet of my chief, 

His bow still hanging on our wall ; 
And took it down, and vow'd to rove 

This desert place a huntress bold ; 

Nor would I change my buried love 

For any heart of living mould." 

Campbell. 

The sleep of storms is dark upon the skies, 
The weight of omens heavy in the cloud : — 

Bid the lorn huntress of the desert rise, 

And gird the form whose beauty grief hath bow'd, 

And leave the tomb, as tombs are left — alone, 

To the star's vigil, and the wind's wild moan. 

Tell her of revelries in bower and hall, [pour'd ; 

Where gems are glittering, and bright wine is 
Where to glad measures chiming footsteps fall, 

And soul seems gushing from the harp's full chord; 
And richer flowers amid fair tresses wave, 
Than the sad Love-lies-bleeding of the grave. 

Oh! little know'st thou of th' o'ermastering spell 
Wherewith love binds the spirit, strong in pain, 

To the spot hallow'd by a wild farewell, 
A parting agony, — intense, yet vain, 

A look — and darkness when its gleam hath flown, 

A voice — and silence when its words are gone ! 

She hears thee not : her full, deep, fervent heart 
Is set in her dark eyes ; — and they are bound 

Unto that cross, that shrine, that world apart, 
Where faithful blood hath sanctified the ground ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 509 


And love with death striven long by tear and prayer, 


Kindles all nature to a sudden smile, 


And anguish frozen into still despair. 


Shedding on branch and flower 




A rainbow-tinted shower 


Yet on her spirit hath arisen at last 


Of richer life — spare, spare me yet awhile. 


A light, a joy, of its own wanderings born ; 




Around her path a vision's glow is cast, 


Too soon, too fast thou'rt come ! 


Back, back her lost one conies in hues of morn ! * 


Too beautiful is home — 


For her the gulf is fiU'd — the dark night fled, 


A home of gentle voices and kind eyes ! 


Whose mystery parts the living and the dead. 


And I the loved of all, 




On whom fond blessings fall 


And she can pour forth in such converse high 


From every lip. Oh ! wilt thou rend such ties 1 


All her soul's tide of love, the deep, the strong. 




Oh ! lonelier far, perchance, thy destiny, 


Sweet sisters ! weave a chain 


And more forlorn, amidst the world's gay throng, 


My spirit to detain : 


Than hers — the queen of that majestic gloom, 


Hold me to earth with strong affection back ; 


The tempest, and the desert, and the tomb ! 


Bind me with mighty love 




Unto the stream, the grove, 





Our daily paths — our life's familiar track. 


* 


Stay with me ! gird me round ! 


THE PEAYER FOR LIFE. 


Your voices bear a sound 




Of hope — a light comes with you and departs; 


sunshine and fair earth ! 


Hush my soul's boding swell, 


Sweet is your kindly mirth ; 


That murmurs of farewell. 


Angel of death ! yet, yet awhile delay ! 


How can I leave this ring of kindest hearts 1 


Too sad it is to part, 




Thus in my spring of heart, 


Death ! grave ! — and are there those 


With all the light and laughter of the day. 


That woo your dark repose 




Midst the rich beauty of the glowing earth ] 


For me the falling leaf 


Surely about them lies 


Touches no chord of grief, 


No world of loving eyes. 


No dark void in the rose's bosom lies : 


Leave me, oh ! leave me unto home and hearth ! 


Not one triumphal tone, 




One hue of hope, is gone 




From song or bloom beneath the summer skies. 





Death, Death ! ere yet decay, 




Call me not hence away ! 


THE WELCOME TO DEATH. 


Over the golden hours no shade is thrown : 




The poesy that dwells 


Thou art welcome, thou warning voice ! 


Deep in green woods and dells 


My soul hath pined for thee ; 


Still to my spirit speaks of joy alone. 


Thou art welcome as sweet sounds from shore 




To wanderer on the sea. 


Yet not for this, Death ! 


I hear thee in the rustling woods, 


Not for the vernal breath 


In the sighing vernal airs ; 


Of winds that shake forth music from the trees : 


Thou call'st me from the lonely earth 


Not for the splendour given 


With a deeper tone than theirs. 


To night's dark, regal heaven, 




Spoiler ! I ask thee not reprieve for these. 


The lonely earth ! Since kindred steps 




From its green paths are fled, 


But for the happy love 


A dimness and a hush have lain 


Whose light, where'er I rove, 


O'er all its beauty spread. 


1 " A son of light, a lovely form, 


The silence of th' unanswering soul 


He comes, and makes her glad." — Campbell. 


Is on me and around ; 



no 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



My heart hath echoes but for thee, 
Thou still, small, warning sound ! 

Voice after voice hath died away, 

Once in my dwelling heard ; 
Sweet household name by name hath changed 

To grief's forbidden word ! 
From dreams of night on each I call, 

Each of the far removed ; 
And waken to my own wild cry — 

" Where are ye, my beloved V 

Ye left me ! and earth's flowers were dim 

With records of the past ; 
And stars pour'd down another light 

Than o'er my youth they cast. 
Birds will not sing as once they sung, 

When ye were at my side, 
And mournful tones are in the wind 

Which I heard not till ye died ! 

Thou art welcome, thou summoner ! 

Why should the last remain ? 
What eye can reach my heart of hearts, 

Bearing in light again ? 
E'en could this be, too much of fear 

O'er love would now be thrown. — 
Away ! away ! from time, from change, 

Once more to meet my own ! 



THE VICTOR. 

*« Dp tout ce qui faimoit n'est-il plus rien qui f aime ?" 
Lamartine. 

Mighty ones, Love and Death ! 
Ye are the strong in this world of ours ; 
Ye meet at the banquets, ye dwell midst the flowers, 

■ — Which hath the conqueror's wreath 1 

TJwu art the victor, Love ! 
Thou art the fearless, the crown' d, the free, 
The strength of the battle is given to thee — 

The spirit from above ! 

Thou hast look'd on Death, and smiled ! 
Thou hast borne up the reed-like and fragile form 
Through the waves of the fight, through the rush 
of the storm, 

On field, and flood, and wild ! 

No ! — TJwu art the victor, Death ! 
Thou comest, and where is that which spoke, 



From the depths of the eye, when the spirit woke 1 ? 
— Gone with the fleeting breath ! 

Thou comest — and what is left 
Of all that loved us, to say if aught 
Yet loves — yet answers the burning thought 

Of the spirit lone and reft ? 

Silence is where thou art ! 
Silently there must kindred meet, 
No smile to cheer, and no voice to greet, 

No bounding of heart to heart ! 

Boast not thy victory, Death ! 
It is biit as the cloud's o'er the sunbeam's power, 
It is but as the winter's o'er leaf and flower, 

That slumber the snow beneath. 

It is but as a tyrant's reign 
O'er the voice and the lip which he bids be still ; 
But the fiery thought and the lofty will 

Are not for him to chain ! 

They shall soar his might above ! 
And thus with the root whence affection springs, 
Though buried, it is not of mortal things — 

Thou art the victor, Love ! 



LINES WRITTEN FOR THE ALBUM AT 

ROSANNA. 1 

Oh ! lightly tread through these deep chestnut- 
bowers, 
Where a sweet spirit once in beauty moved ! 
And touch with reverent hand these leaves and 
flowers — 
Fair things, which well a gentle heart hath loved ! 
A gentle heart, of love and grief th' abode, 
Whence the bright stream of song in tear-drops 
flow'd. 

And bid its memory sanctify the scene ! 

And let th' ideal presence of the dead 
Float round, and touch the woods with softer green, 

And o'er the streams a charm, like moonlight, 
shed, 
Through the soul's depths in holy silence felt — ■ 
A spell to raise, to chasten, and to melt ! 

1 A beautiful place in the county of Wicklow, formerly the 
abode of the authoress of " Psyche." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



511 



THE VOICE OF THE WAVES. 

WRITTEN NEAR THE SCENE OF A RECENT SHIPWRECK. 

" How perfect was the calm ! It seem'd no sleep, 
No mood which season takes away or brings ; 
I could have fancied that the mighty deep 
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. 



But welcome fortitude and patient cheer, 
And frequent sights of what is to be borne." 

Wordsworth. 

Answee, ye chiming waves 

That now in sunshine sweep ! 
Speak to me from thy hidden caves, 

Voice of the solemn deep ! 

Hath man's lone spirit here 

With storms in battle striven ? 
Where all is now so calmly clear, 

Hath anguish cried to heaven 1 

— Then the sea's voice arose 

Like an earthquake's under-tone : 

" Mortal ! the strife of human woes 
Where hath not nature known ? 

" Here to the quivering mast 

Despair hath wildly clung ; 
The shriek upon the wind hath pass'd, 

The midnight sky hath rung. 

" And the youthful and the brave, 
With their beauty and renown, 

To the hollow chambers of the wave 
In darkness have gone down. 

" They are vanish'd from their place — 
Let their homes j*nd hearths make moan ! 

But the rolling waters keep no trace 
Of pang or conflict gone." 

— Alas ! thou haughty deep ! 

The strong, the sounding far ! 
My heart before thee dies, — I weep 

To think on what we are ! 

To think that so we pass — ■ 

High hope, and thought, and mind — 
Even as the breath-stain from the glass, 

Leaving no sign behind ! 

Saw'st thou naught else, thou main ? 

Thou and the midnight sky ] 
Naught save the struggle, brief and vain, 

The parting agony ! 



— And the sea's voice replied : 

" Here nobler things have been ! 
Power, with the valiant when they died, 

To sanctify the scene : 

" Courage, in fragile form, 

Faith, trusting to the last, 
Prayer, breathing heavenwards thro' the storm : 

But all alike have pass'd." 

Sound on, thou haughty sea ! 

These have not pass'd in vain ; 
My soul awakes, my hope springs free 

On victor wings again. 

TIwu, from thine empire driven, 

Ma/st vanish with thy powers ; 
But, by the hearts that here have striven, 

A loftier boon is ours ! 



THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 

" I seem like one who treads alone 
Some banquet hall deserted, 
Whose lights are fled, whose garlands dead, 
And all but me departed." Moore. 

See'st thou yon gray, gleaming hall, 
Where the deep elm-shadows fall 1 
Voices that have left the earth 

Long ago, 
Still are murmuring round its hearth^ 

Soft and low : 
Ever there ; — yet one alone 
Hath the gift to hear their tone. 
Guests come thither, and depart, 
Free of step, and light of heart ; 
Children, with sweet visions bless'd, 
In the haunted chambers rest; 
One alone unslumbering lies 
When the night hath seal'd all eyes, 
One quick heart and watchful ear, 
Listening for those whispers clear. 

See'st thou where the woodbine-flowers 
O'er yon low porch hang in showers 1 
Startling faces of the dead, 

Pale, yet sweet, 
One lone woman's entering tread 

There still meet ! 
Some with young, smooth foreheads fair, 
Faintly shining through bright hair; 
Some with reverend locks of snow — 
All, all buried long ago ! 



512 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



All, from under deep sea-waves, 

Or the flowers of foreign graves, 

Or the old and banner'd aisle, 

Where their high tombs gleam the while ; 

Eising, wandering, floating by, 

Suddenly and silently, 

Through their earthly home and place, 

But amidst another race. 

Wherefore, unto one alone, 

Are those sounds and visions known 1 

Wherefore hath that spell of power 

Dark and dread, 
On her soul, a baleful dower, 

Thus been shed ] 
Oh ! in those deep-seeing eyes, 
No strange gift of mystery lies ! 
She is lone where once she moved 
Fair, and happy, and beloved ! 
Sunny smiles were glancing round her, 
Tendrils of kind hearts had bound her. 
Now those silver chords are broken, 
Those bright looks have left no token — ■ 
Not one trace on all the earth, 
Save her memory of their mirth. 
She is lone and lingering now, 
Dreams have gather'd o'er her brow, 
Midst gay songs and children's play, 
She is dwelling far away, 
Seeing what none else may see — 
Haunted still her place must be ! 

[" Mrs Hemans resided in the immediate vicinity of this 
old house (in the village of Wavertree) for nearly three years': 
it (Wavertree Hall) suggested her beautiful poem, ' Books 
and Flowers ; ' and one of her most exquisite lyrics, ' The 
Haunted House,' describes its local scenery, and gives 'a 
brief abstract ' of the sufferings and feelings of one of its 
inhabitants." — Recollections of Mrs Hemans, by Mrs Law- 
rence. 

The same subject has been treated by the late lamented 
Thomas Hood in a poem under a similar title. — Vide Poems, 
vol. i. p. 48. It is worth referring to, if for nothing else than 
observing how it has been dealt with by two ingenious and ori- 
ginal minds. Mrs Hemans's lyric was first published.] 



THE SHEPHERD-POET OF THE ALPS. 

" God gave him reverence of laws, 
Yet stirring blood in freedom's cause — 
A spirit to his rocks akin, 
The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein ! " Coleridge 



Singing of the free blue sky, 
And the wild-flower glens that he 



Far amidst the ancient hills, 

Which the fountain-music fills ; 

Singing of the snow-peaks bright, 

And the royal eagle's flight, 

And the courage and the grace 

Foster'd by the chamois-chase ; 

In his fetters, day by day, 

So the Shepherd-poet lay. 

Wherefore, from a dungeon-cell 

Did those notes of freedom swell, 

Breathing sadness not their own 

Forth with every Alpine tone ? 

Wherefore ! — can a tyrant's ear 

Brook the mountain-winds to hear, 

When each blast goes pealing by 

With a song of liberty ] 

Darkly hung th' oppressor's hand 

O'er the Shepherd-poet's land ; 

Sounding there the waters gush'd, 

While the lip of man was hush'd; 

There the falcon pierced the cloud, 

While the fiery heart was bow'd. 

But this might not long endure, 

Where the mountain-homes were pure ; 

And a valiant voice arose, 

Thrilling all the silent snows ; 

His — now singing far and lone, 

Where the young breeze ne'er was known ; 

Singing of the glad blue sky, 

Wildly — and how mournfully ! 

Are none but the Wind and the Lammer-Geyer 
To be free where the hills unto heaven aspire 1 
Is the soul of song from the deep glens past, 
Now that their poet is chain'd at last 1 — 
Think of the mountains, and deem not so ! 
Soon shall each blast like a clarion blow ! 
Yes ! though forbidden be every word 
Wherewith that spirit the Alps hath stirr'd, 
Yet even as a buried stream through earth 
Rolls on to another and brighter birth, 
So shall the voice that hath seem'd to die 
Burst forth with the anthem of liberty ! 

And another power is moving 

In a bosom fondly loving : 

Oh ! a sister's heart is deep, 

And her spirit strong to keep 

Each light link of early hours, 

All sweet scents of childhood's flowers ! 

Thus each lay by Erni sung, 

Rocks and crystal caves among, 

Or beneath the linden-leaves, 

Or the cabin's vine-hung eaves, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 513 


Rapid though as bird-notes gushing, 


And the strains by his spirit pour'd away 


Transient as a wan cheek's flushing, 


Freely as fountains might shower their spray, 


Each in young Teresa's breast 


From her fervent lip a new life have caught, 


Left its fiery words impress'd ; 


And a power to kindle yet bolder thought ; 


Treasured there lay every line, 


While sometimes a melody, all her own, 


As a rich book on a hidden shrine. 


Like a gush of tears in its plaintive tone, 


Fair was that lone girl, and meek, 


May be heard midst the lonely rocks to flow, 


With a pale, transparent cheek, 


Clear through the water-chimes — clear, yet low. 


And a deep-fringed violet eye 




Seeking in sweet shade to lie, 


" Thou'rt not where wild-flowers wave 


Or, if raised to glance above, 


O'er crag and sparry cave ; 


Dim with its own dews of love ; 


Thou'rt not where pines are sounding, 


And a pure Madonna brow, 


Or joyous torrents bounding — 


And a silvery voice and low, 


Alas, my brother ! 


Like the echo of a flute, 




Even the last, ere all be mute. 


" Thou'rt not where green, on high, 


But a loftier soul was seen 


The blighter pastures lie ; 


In the orphan sister's mien, 


Ev'n those, thine own wild places, 


From that hour when chains defiled 


Bear of our chain dark traces : 


Him, the high Alps' noble child. 


Alas, my brother ! 


Tones in her quivering voice awoke, 




As if a harp of battle spoke ; 


" Far hath the sunbeam spread, 


Light, that seem'd born of an eagle's nest, 


Nor found thy lonely bed ; 


Flash'd from her soft eyes unrepress'd ; 


Long hath the fresh wind sought thee, 


And her form, like a spreading water-flower, 


Nor one sweet whisper brought thee — 


When its frail cup swells with a sudden shower, 


Alas, my brother ! 


Seem'd all dilated with love and pride, 




And grief for that brother, her young heart's 


" Thou, that for joy wert born, 


guide. 


Free as the wings of morn ! 


Well might they love ! — those two had grown 


Will aught thy young life cherish, 


Orphans together and alone : 


Where the Alpine rose would perish 1 — 


The silence of the Alpine sky 


Alas, my brother ! 


Had hush'd their hearts to piety ; 




The turf, o'er their dead mother laid, 


" Canst thou be singing still, 


Had been their altar when they pray'd ; 


As once on every hill 1 


There, more in tenderness than woe, 


Is not thy soul forsaken, 


The stars had seen their young tears flow ; 


And the bright gift from thee taken 1 — 


The clouds, in spirit-like descent, 


Alas, alas, my brother !" 


Their deep thoughts by one touch had blent, 




And the wild storms link'd them to each other — 


And teas the bright gift from the captive fled 1 


How dear can peril make a brother ! 


Like the fire on his hearth, was his spirit dead 1 




Not so ! — but as rooted in stillness deep, 


Now is their hearth a forsaken spot, 


The pure stream-lily its place will keep, 


The vine waves unpruned o'er their mountain cot : 


Though its tearful urns to the blast may quiver, 


Away, in that holy affection's might, 


While the red waves rush down the foaming river; 


The maiden is gone, like a breeze of the night. 


So freedom's faith in his bosom lay, 


She is gone forth alone, but her lighted face, 


Trembling, yet not to be borne away ! 


Filling with soul every secret place, 


He thought of the Alps and their breezy air, 


Hath a dower from heaven, and a gift of sway, 


And felt that his country no chains might bear ; 


To arouse brave hearts in its hidden way, 


He thought of the hunter's haughty life, 


Like the sudden flinging forth on high 


And knew there must yet be noble strife. 


Of a banner, that startleth silently ! 


Bat, oh ! when he thought of that orphan maid, 


She hath wander'd through many a hamlet-vale, 


His high heart melted — he wept and pray'd ! 


Telling its children her brother's tale ; 


For he saw her not as she moved e'en then, 



514 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



A wakener of heroes in every glen, 
With a glance inspired which no grief could tame, 
Bearing on hope like a torch's name ; 
"While the strengthening voice of mighty wrongs 
Gave echoes back to her thrilling songs. 
But his dreams were fill'd by a haunting tone, 
Sad as a sleeping infant's moan ; 
And his soul was pierced by a mournful eye, 
Which look'd on it — oh ! how beseechingly ! 
And there floated past him a fragile form, 
With a willowy droop, as beneath the storm ; 
Till wakening in anguish, his faint heart strove 
In vain with its burden of helpless love ! 
Thus woke the dreamer one weary night — [light; 
There flash'd through his dungeon a swift strong 
He sprang up — he climb'd to the grating-bars. 
— It was not the rising of moon or stars, 
But a signal-flame from a peak of snow, 
Bock'd through the dark skies to and fro ! 
There shot forth another — another still — 
A hundred answers of hill to hill ! 
Tossing like pines in the tempest's way, 
Joyously, wildly, the bright spires play, 
And each is hail'd with a pealing shout, 
For the high Alps waving their banners out ! 
Erni ! young Erni ! the land hath risen ! — ■ 
Alas ! to be lone in thy narrow prison ! 
Those free streamers glancing, and thou not there ! 
— Is the moment of rapture, or fierce despair ? 
— Hark ! there 's a tumult that shakes his cell, 
At the gates of the mountain citadel ! [ing ! 

Hark ! a clear voice through the rude sounds ring- 
Doth he know the strain, and the wild, sweet 
singing 1 

" There may not long be fetters, 
Where the cloud is earth's array, 

And the bright floods leap from cave and steep, 
Like a hunter on the prey ! 

" There may not long be fetters, 

Where the white Alps have their towers ; 

Unto Eagle-homes, if the arrow comes, 
The chain is not for ours ! " 

It is she ! She is come like a dayspring beam, 
She that so mournfully shadow'd his dream ! 
With her shining eyes and her buoyant form, 
She is come ! her tears on his cheek are warm ; 
And oh ! the thrill in that weeping voice ! 
"My brother! my brother ! come forth, rejoice!" 

Poet ! the land of thy love is free, — 
Sister ! thy brother is won by thee ! 



TO THE MOUNTAIN WINDS. 



How divine 



The liberty, for frail, for mortal man, 
To roam at large among unpeopled glens, 
And mountainous retirements, only trod 
By devious footsteps !— Regions consecrate 
To oldest time ! And reckless of the storm 
That keeps the raven quiet in his nest, 
Be as a presence or a motion — One 
Among the many there." Wordsworth. 

Mountain winds ! oh, whither do ye call me ] 
Vainly, vainly would my steps pursue ! 

Chains of care to lower earth enthrall me, 
Wherefore thus my weary spirit woo ] 

Oh ! the strife of this divided being ! 

Is there peace where ye are born on high 1 
Could we soar to your proud eyries fleeing, 

In our hearts would haunting memories die 1 

Those wild places are not as a dwelling 
Whence the footsteps of the loved are gone ! 

Never from those rocky halls came swelling 
Voice of kindness in familiar tone ! 

Surely music of oblivion sweepeth 

In the pathway of your wanderings free ; 

And the torrent, wildly as it leapeth, 
Sings of no lost home amidst its glee. 

There the rushing of the falcon's pinion 
Is not from some hidden pang to fly ; 

All things breathe of power and stern dominion — 
Not of hearts that in vain yearnings die. 

Mountain winds ! oh ! is it, is it only 

Where man's trace hath been that so we pine 1 

Bear me up, to grow in thought less lonely, 
Even at nature's deepest, loneliest shrine ! 

Wild, and mighty, and mysterious singers ! 

At whose tone my heart within me burns ; 
Bear me where the last red sunbeam lingers, 

Where the waters have their secret urns ! 

There to commune with a loftier spirit 
Than the troubling shadows, of regret ; 

There the wings of freedom to inherit, 

Where the enduring and the wing'd are met. 

Hush, proud voices ! gentle be your falling ! 

Woman's lot thus chainless may not be ; 
Hush ! the heart your trumpet-sounds are calling, 

Darkly still may grow — but never free ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



515 



THE PROCESSION". 



'The peace which passeth all understanding,' disclosed itself 
l her looks and movements. It lay on her countenance like a 
steady unshadowed moonlight."— Coleridge. 



There were trampling sounds of many feet, 
And music rush'd through the crowded street : 
Proud music, such as tells the sky 
Of a chief return'd from victory. 

There were banners to the winds unroll'd, 
With haughty words on each blazon'd fold ; 
High battle-names, which had rung of yore 
When lances clash'd on the Syrian shore. 

Borne from their dwellings, green and lone, 
There were flowers of the woods on the pathway 

strown ; 
And wheels that crush'd as they swept along ; — 
Oh ! what doth the violet amidst the throng? 

I saw where a bright procession pass'd 
The gates of a minster old and vast; 
And a king to his crowning-place was led, 
Through a sculptured line of the warrior-dead. 

I saw, far gleaming, the long array 
Of trophies, on those high tombs that lay, 
And the colour'd light, that wrapp'd them all, 
Eich, deep, and sad, as a royal pall. 

But a lowlier grave soon won mine eye 
Away from th' ancestral pageantry — 
A grave by the lordly minster's gate, 
Unhonour'd, and yet not desolate. 

It was a dewy greensward bed, 
Meet for the rest of a peasant head ; 
But Love — oh, lovelier than all beside ! — 
That lone place guarded and glorified. 

For a gentle form stood watching there, 
Young— but how sorrowfully fair ! 
Keeping the flowers of the holy spot, 
That reckless feet might profane them not. 

Clear, pale and clear, was the tender cheek, 
And her eye, though tearful, serenely meek; 
And I deem'd, by its lifted gaze of love, 
That her sad heart's treasure was all above. 

For alone she seem'd midst the throng to be, 
Like a bird of the waves far away at sea ; 



Alone, in a mourner's vest array' d, 

And with folded hands, e'en as if she pray'd. 

It faded before me, that mask of pride, 
The haughty swell of the music died ; 
Banner, and armour, and tossing plume, 
All melted away in the twilight's gloom. 

But that orphan form, with its willowy grace, 
And the speaking prayer in that pale, calm face, 
Still, still o'er my thoughts in the night-hour glide- 
— Oh ! Love is lovelier than all beside ! 



THE BROKEN LUTE. 

When the lamp is shatter'd, 

The light in the dust lies dead ; 
When the cloud is seatter'd, 

The rainbow's glory is shed. 
When the lute is broken. 

Sweet sounds are remember'd not; 
When the words are spoken, 

Loved accents are soon furgot. 

As music and splendour 
Survive not the lamp and lute, 

The heart's echoes render 
No song when the spirit is mute." 



She dwelt in proud Venetian 

Midst forms that breathed from the pictured walls ; 

But a glow of beauty like her own, 

There had no dream of the painter thrown. 

Lit from within was her noble brow, 

As an urn, whence rays from a lamp may flow ; 

Her young, clear cheek, had a changeful hue, 

As if ye might see how the soul wrought through, 

And every flash of her fervent eye 

Seem'd the bright wakening of Poesy. 

Even thus it was ! From her childhood's years 
A being of sudden smiles and tears — 
Passionate visions, quick light and shade — 
Such was that high-born Italian maid ! 
And the spirit of song in her bosom-cell 
Dwelt, as the odours in violets dwell, 
Or as the sounds in iEolian strings, 
Or in aspen-leaves the quiverings ; 
There, ever there, with the life enshrined, 
Waiting the call of the faintest wind. 

Oft, on the wave of the Adrian sea, 
In the city's hour of moonlight glee — 
Oft would that gift of the southern sky 
O'erflow from her lips in melody ; 
Oft amid festal halls it came, 
Like the springing forth of a sudden flame— 



516 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Till the dance was hush'd, and the silvery tone 

Of her inspiration was heard alone. 

And fame went with her, the bright, the crown'd, 

And music floated her steps around ; 

And every lay of her soul was borne 

Through the sunny land, as on wings of morn. 

And was the daughter of Venice blest, 
"With a power so deep in her youthful breast 1 
Could she be happy, o'er whose dark eye 
So many changes and dreams went by ] 
And in whose cheek the swift crimson wrought 
As if but born from the rush of thought ? 
Yes ! in the brightness of joy awhile 
She moved as a bark in the sunbeam's smile ; 
For her spirit, as over her lyre's full chord, 
All, all on a happy love was pour'd ! 
How loves a heart whence the stream of song 
Flows, like the life-blood, quick, bright, and 

strong? 
How loves a heart, which hath never proved 
One breath of the world ? Even so she loved ; 
Bless'd, though the lord of her soul, afar, 
Was charging the foremost in Moslem war, 
Bearing the flag of St Mark's on high, 
As a ruling star in the Grecian sky. 
Proud music breathed in her song, when fame 
Gave a tone more thrilling to his name ; 
And her trust in his love was a woman's faith — 
Perfect, and fearing no change but death. 

But the fields are won from the Othman host, 
In the land that quell'd the Persian's boast, 
And a thousand hearts in Venice burn 
For the day of triumph and return ! 
The day is come ! the flashing deep 
Foams where the galleys of victory sweep ; 
And the sceptred city of the wave 
With her festal splendour greets the brave ; 
Cymbal, and clarion, and voice, around, 
Make the air one stream of exulting sound ; 
While the beautiful, with their sunny smiles, 
Look from each hall of the hundred isles. 

But happiest and brightest that day of all, 
Robed for her warrior's festival, 
Moving a queen midst the radiant throng, 
Was she, th' inspired one, the maid of song ! 
The lute he loved on her arm she bore, 
As she rush'd in her joy to the crowded shore ; 
With a hue on her cheek like the damask glow 
By the sunset given unto mountain snow, 
And her eye all fill'd with the spirit's play, 
Like the flash of a gem to the changeful day, 



And her long hair waving in ringlets bright — 

So came that being of hope and light ! 

One moment, Erminia ! one moment more, 

And life, all the beauty of life, is o'er ! 

The bark of her lover hath touch'd the strand — 

Whom leads he forth with a gentle hand 1 

— A young fair form, whose nymph-like grace 

Accorded well with the Grecian face, 

And the eye, in its clear, soft darkness meek, 

And the lashes that droop'd o'er a pale rose cheek; 

And he look'd on that beauty with tender pride — 

The warrior hath brought back an Eastern bride ! 

But how stood she, the forsaken, there, 

Struck by the lightning of swift despair 1 

Still, as amazed with grief, she stood, 

And her cheek to her heart sent back the blood ; 

And there came from her quivering lip no word, 

Only the fall of her lute was heard, 

As it dropp'd from her hand at her rival's feet, 

Into fragments, whose dying thrill was sweet ! 

What more remaineth 1 Her day was done ; 
Her fate and the Broken Lute's were one ! 
The light, the vision, the gift of power, 
Pass'd from her soul in that mortal hour, 
Like the rich sound from the shatter'd string 
Whence the gush of sweetness no more might 



spring 



As an eagle struck in his upward flight, 

So was her hope from its radiant height ; 

And her song went with it for evermore, 

A gladness taken from sea and shore ! 

She had moved to the echoing sound of fame — 

Silnetly, silently, died her name ! 

Silently melted her life away, 

As ye have seen a young flower decay, 

Or a lamp that hath swiftly burn'd expire, 

Or a bright stream shrink from the summer's fire, 

Leaving its channel all dry and mute — 

Woe for the Broken Heart and Lute ! 



THE BURIAL IN THE DESERT. 



" How weeps yon gallant band 
0"er him their valour could not save ! 
For the bayonet is red with gore, 
And he, the beautiful and brave, 

Now sleeps in Egypt's sand." Wilson. 



In the shadow of the Pyramid 

Our brother's grave we made, 
When the battle-day was done, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 517 


Aud the desert's parting sun 


more happily employed than in lamenting the beloved aud 


A field of death survey'd. 


early called, or in bidding 




' Hope to the world to look beyond the tombs." 


The blood-red sky above us 


I need only mention a few lyrics, ' The Farewell to the Dead,' 


Was darkening into night, 


(in the Lays of Many Lands;) ' The Exile's Dirge,' (in the 


And the Arab watching silently 


Songs of the Affections;) 'The Burial of an Emigrant's 


Our sad and hurried rite ; 


Child in the Forest,' (in the Scenes and Hymns of Life;) 




and the 'Burial in the Desert,' a noble poem, published 




among her poetical remains. The introduction of the two 


The voice of Egypt's river 


following stanzas of a more concise and monumental charac- 


Came hollow and profound ; 


ter, 1 though they have already appeared in print, will not, I 


And one lone palm-tree, where we stood, 


am sure, be objected to as illustrating the above remark." — 




Chorley's Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 26-7.] 


Rock'd with a shivery sound : 




While the shadow of the Pyramid 





Hung o'er the grave we made, 


TO A PICTURE OF THE MADONNA. 


When the battle-day was done, 




And the desert's parting sun 


" Ave Maria ! May our spirits dare 


A field of death survey'd. 


Look up to thine, and to thy Son's above ? " Byron. 


The fathers of our brother 


Fair vision ! thou 'rt from sunny skies, 


Were borne to knightly tombs, 


Born where the rose hath richest dyes ; 


With torch-light and with anthem-note, 


To thee a southern heart hath given 


And many waving plumes : 


That glow of love, that calm of heaven, 




And round thee cast th' ideal gleam, 


But he, the last and noblest 


The light that is but of a dream. 


Of that high Norman race, 




With a few brief words of soldier-love 


Far hence, where wandering music fills 


Was gather'd to his place ; 


The haunted air of Roman hills, 




Or where Venetian waves of yore 


In the shadow of the Pyramid, 


Heard melodies, they hear no more, 


Where his youthful form we laid, 


Some proud old minster's gorgeous aisle 


When the battle-day was done, 


Hath known the sweetness of thy smile. 


And the desert's parting sun 




A field of death survey'd. 


Or haply, from a lone, dim shrine 




Mid forests of the Apennine, 


But let him, let him slumber 


Whose breezy sounds of cave and dell 


By the old Egyptian wave ! 


Pass like a floating anthem-swell, 


It is well with those who bear their fame 


Thy soft eyes o'er the pilgrim's way 


Unsullied to the grave ! 


Shed blessings with their gentle ray. 


When brightest names are breathed on, 


Or gleaming through a chestnut wood, 


When loftiest fall so fast, 


Perchance thine island-chapel stood, 


We would not call our brother back 


Where from the blue Sicilian sea 


On dark days to be cast, — 


The sailor's hymn hath risen to thee, 




And bless'd thy power to guide, to save, 


From the shadow of the Pyramid, 


Madonna ! watcher of the wave ! 


Where his noble heart we laid, 




When the battle-day was done, 


Oh ! might a voice, a whisper low, 


And the desert's parting sun 


Forth from those lips of beauty flow ! 


A field of death survey'd. 


Couldst thou but speak of all the tears, 




The conflicts, and the pangs of years, 




Which, at thy secret shrine reveal'd, 


[" Mrs Hemans' funeral poems are among her most im- 


Have gush'd from human hearts unseal'd ! 


pressive works : the music of her verse, through which an 




under-current of sadness may always be traced, was never 

1 


1 Vide " Monumental Inscription," p, 356. 



518 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


Surely to thee hath woman come, 


Rose ! for the banquet gather' d, and the bier ; 


As a tired wanderer back to home ! 


Rose ! colour'd now by human hope and pain ; 


Unveiling many a timid guest 


Surely where death is not — nor change, nor fear, 


And treasured sorrow of her breast, 


Yet may we meet thee, joy's own flower again ! 


A buried love — a wasting care — 




Oh ! did those griefs win peace from prayer 1 





And did the poet's fervid soul 


DREAMS OF HEAVEN. 


To thee lay bare its inmost scroll 1 [fire 


" We colour heaven with our own human thoughts, 


Those thoughts, which pour'd their quenchless 


Our vain aspirings, fond remembrances, 


And passion o'er th' Italian lyre, 


Our passionate love, that seems unto itself 
An Immortality." 


Did they to still submission die 




Beneath thy calm, religious eye ? 


Deeam'st thou of heaven 1 What dreams are 




Fair child, fair gladsome child ? [thine 1 


And hath the crested helmet bow'd 


"With eyes that like the dewdrop shine, 


Before thee, midst the incense-cloud ] 


And bounding footsteps wild ! 


Hath the crown'd leader's bosom lone 




To thee its haughty griefs made known ?• 


Tell me what hues th' immortal shore 


Did thy glance break their frozen sleep, 


Can wear, my bird ! to thee 1 


And win th' unconquer'd one to weep 1 


Ere yet one shadow hath pass'd o'er 




Thy glance and spirit free 1 


Hush'd is the anthem, closed the vow, 




The votive garland wither'd now ; 


" Oh ! beautiful is heaven, and bright 


Yet holy still to me thou art, 


With long, long summer days ; 


Thou that hath soothed so many a heart ! 


I see its lilies gleam in light 


And still must blessed influence flow 


Where many a fountain plays. 


From the meek glory of thy brow. 






"And there uncheck'd, methinks, I rove, 


Still speak to suffering woman's love, 


And seek where young flowers lie, 


Of rest for gentle hearts above ; 


In vale and golden-fruited grove — 


Of hope, that hath its treasure there, 


Flowers that are not to die ! " 


Of home, that knows no changeful air. 




Bright form ! lit up with thoughts divine, 


Thou poet of the lonely thought, 


Ave ! such power be ever thine ! 


Sad heir of gifts divine ! 




Say with what solemn glory fraught 





Is heaven in dreams of thine ? 




" Oh ! where the living waters flow 


A THOUGHT OF THE ROSE. 


Along that radiant shore, 




My soul, a wanderer here, shall know 


How much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom, 


The exile-thirst no more. 


Rose ! ever wearing beauty for thy dower ! 




The bridal-day — the festival — the tomb — 


" The burden of the stranger's heart 


Thou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest flower! 


Which here alone I bear, 




Like the night-shadow shall depart, 


Therefore with thy soft breath come floating by 


With my first wakening there. 


A thousand images of love and grief, 




Dreams, fill'd with tokens of mortality, 


" And borne on eagle wings afar, 


Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and brief. 


Free thought shall claim its dower, 




From every realm, from every star, 


Not such thy spells o'er those that hail'd thee first, 


Of glory and of power." 


In the clear light of Eden's golden day ! 




There thy rich leaves to crimson glory burst, 


woman ! with the soft sad eye, 


Link'd with no dim remembrance of decay. 


Of spiritual gleam, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



519 



Tell me of those bright worlds on high, 
How doth thy fond heart dream ] 

By the sweet mournful voice I know, 

On thy pale brow I see, 
That thou hast loved, in fear, and woe — 

Say what is heaven to thee 1 

" Oh ! heaven is where no secret dread 
May haunt love's meeting hour, 

Where from the past no gloom is shed 
O'er the heart's chosen bower : 

" Where every sever'd wreath is bound — 
Where none have heard the knell 

That smites the heart with that deep sound- 
Farewell, beloved ! — farewell!" 



THE WISH. 

Come to me, when my soul 
Hath but a few dim hours to linger here ; 

When earthly chains are as a shrivel'd scroll, 
Oh ! let me feel thy presence ! be but near ! 

That I may look once more 
Into thine eyes, which never changed for me ; 

That I may speak to thee of that bright shore 
Where, with our treasure, we have long'd to be. 

Thou friend of many days ! 
Of sadness and of joy, of home and hearth ! 

Will not thy spirit aid me then to raise 
The trembling pinions of my hope from earth ? 

By every solemn thought 
Which on our hearts hath sunk in days gone by, 
From the deep voices of the mountains caught, 
O'er all th' adoring silence of the sky; 

By every lofty theme 
Whereon, in low-toned reverence we have spoken; 

By our communion in each fervent dream 
That sought from realms beyond the grave a token; 

And by our tears for those [death ; 

Whose loss hath touch'd our world with hues of 

And by the hopes that with their dust repose, 

As flowers await the south- wind's vernal breath ; 

Come to me in that day — 
The one — the sever'd from all days— friend ! 



Even then, if human thought may then have sway. 
My soul with thine shall yet rejoice to blend. 

Nor then, nor there alone : 
I ask my heart if all indeed must die — 

All that of holiest feelings it hath known ? 
And my heart's voice replies — Eternity 1 ? 



WRITTEN AFTER VISITING A TOMB, 

NEAR WOODSTOCK, IN THE COUNTY OF KILKENNY. 1 

" Yes ! hide beneath the mouldering heap, 

The undelighted, slighted thing ; 

There in the cold earth, buried deep, 

In silence let it wait the Spring." 

Mrs Tighe's " Poem on the Lily." 

I stood where the lip of song lay low, 
Where the dust had gather'd on Beauty's brow ; 
Where stillness hung on the heart of Love, 
And a marble weeper kept watch above. 

I stood in the silence of lonely thought, 
Of deep affections that inly wrought, 
Troubled, and dreamy, and dim with fear — 
They knew themselves exiled spirits here ! 

Then didst thou pass me in radiance by, 
Child of the sunbeam, bright butterfly ! 
Thou that dost bear, on thy fairy wings, 
No burden of mortal sufferings. 

Thou wert flitting past that solemn tomb, 
Over a bright world of joy and bloom ; 
And strangely I felt, as I saw thee shine, 
The all that sever'd thy life and mine. 

Mine, with its inborn mysterious things, 
Of love and grief its unfathom'd springs ; 
And quick thoughts wandering o'er earth and sky, 
With voices to question eternity ! 

Thine, in its reckless and joyous way, 
Like an embodied breeze at play ! 
Child of the sunlight ! — thou wing'd and free ! 
One moment, one moment, I envied thee ! 

Thou art not lonely, though born to roam, 
Thou hast no longings that pine for home ; 
Thou seek'st not the haunts of the bee and bird, 
To fly from the sickness of hope deferr'd : 

1 See the " Grave of a Poetess," p. 411, on the same sub- 
ject, and written several years previously to visiting the scene. 



>20 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



In thy brief being no strife of mind, 
No boundless passion, is deeply shrined ; 
While I, as I gazed on thy swift flight by, 
One hour of my soul seem'd infinity ! 

And she, that voiceless below me slept, 
Flow'd not her song from a heart that wept 1 
— Love and Song! though of heaven your powers. 
Dark is your fate in this world of ours. 

Yet, ere I turn'd from that silent place, 
Or ceased from watching thy sunny race, 
Thou, even thou, on those glancing wings, 
Didst waft me visions of brighter things ! 

Thou that dost image the freed soul's birth, 
And its flight away o'er the mists of earth, 
Oh ! fitly thy path is through flowers that rise 
Round the dark chamber where Genius lies ! 



EPITAPH. 

Farewell, beloved and moum'd ! We miss awhile 
Thy tender gentleness of voice and smile, 
And that bless'd gift of heaven, to cheer us lent — 
That thrilling toucl*, divinely eloquent, [high, 
Which breathed the soul of prayer, deep, fervent, 
Through thy rich strains of sacred harmony. 
Yet from those very memories there is born 
A soft light, pointing to celestial morn : 
Oh ! bid it guide us where thy footsteps trode, 
To meet at last " the pure in heart" with God! 



PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF FIESCO, 

AS TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER, 
BY COLONEL d'AGUILAR , AND PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE- 
ROYAL, DUBLIN, DECEMBER 1832. 

Too long apart, a bright but sever'd band, 
The mighty minstrels of the Rhine's fair land 
Majestic strains, but not for us, had sung — 
Moulding to melody a stranger tongue. 
Brave hearts leap'd proudly to their words of power, 
As a true sword bounds forth in battle's hour ; 
Fair eyes rain'd homage o'er th' impassion'd lays, 
In loving tears, more eloquent than praise ; 
While we, far distant, knew not, dream'd not aught 
Of the high marvels by that magic wrought. 

But let the barriers of the sea give way, [sway! 
When mind sweeps onward with a conqueror's 



And let the Rhine divide high souls no more 
From mingling on its old heroic shore, [age 

Which, e'en like ours, brave deeds through many an 
Have made the poet's own free heritage ! 
To us, though faintly, may a wandering tone 
Of the far minstrelsy at last be known ; 
Sounds which the thrilling pulse, the burning tear, 
Have sprung to greet, must not be strangers here. 
And if by one, more used on march and heath 
To the shrill bugle than the muse's breath, 
With a warm heart the offering hath been brought, 
And in a trusting loyalty of thought, 
So let it be received ! — a soldier's hand 
Bears to the breast of no ungenerous land 
A seed of foreign shores. O'er this fair clime, 
Since Tara heard the harp of ancient time, 
Hath song held empire ; then, if not with fame, 
Let the green isle with kindness bless his aim, 
The joy, the power, of kindred song to spread, 
Where once that harp "the soul of music shed !" 



TO GIULIO REGONDI, 

THE BOY GUITARIST. 

Blessing and love be round thee still, fair boy ! 

Never may suffering wake a deeper tone 
Than genius now, in its first fearless joy, 

Calls forth exulting from the chords which own 
Thy fairy touch ! Oh ! may'st thou ne'er be taught 
The power whose fountain is in troubled thought! 

For in the light of those confiding eyes, 

And on th' ingenuous calm of that clear brow, 

A dower, more precious e'en than genius lies, 
A pure mind's worth, a warm heart's vernal glow! 

God, who hath graced thee thus, gentle child ! 

Keep midst the world thy brightness undefiled ! 



YE HOURS! 

te hours ! ye sunny hours ! 

Floating lightly by, 
Are ye come with birds and flowers, 

Odours and blue sky 1 

" Yes ! we come, again we come, 
Through the woodpaths free : 

Bringing many a wanderer home, 
With the bird and bee." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



521 



ye hours ! ye sunny hours ! 

Are ye wafting song ] 
Doth wild music stream in showers 

All the groves among? 

" Yes ! the nightingale is there 

While the starlight reigns, 
Making young leaves and sweet air 

Tremble with her strains." 

ye hours ! ye sunny hours ! 

In your silent flow, 
Ye are mighty, mighty powers ! 

Bring ye bliss or woe ? 

" Ask not this — oh ! seek not this ! 

Yield your hearts awhile 
To the soft wind's balmy kiss, 

And the heavens' bright smile. 

" Throw not shades of anxious thought 

O'er the glowing flowers ! 
We are come with sunshine fraught, 

Question not the hours !" 



THE FREED BIRD. 

. Return, return, my bird ! 

I have dress'd thy cage with flowers ; 
'Tis lovely as a violet bank 
In the heart of forest bowers. 

" I am free, I am free — I return no more ! 
The weary time of the cage is o'er ; 
Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high, 
The sky is around me — the blue, bright sky ! 
The hills lie beneath me, spread far and clear, 
With their glowing heath-flowers and bounding 

deer; 
I see the waves flash on the sunny shore— 
I am free, I am free — I return no more !" 

Alas, alas ! my bird ! 

Why seek'st thou to be free ? 
Wert thou not bless'd in thy little bower, 

When thy song breathed naught but glee ? 

1 Queen of St Louis. Whilst besieged by the Turks in 
Damietta, during the captivity of the king her husband, she 
there gave birth to a son, whom she named Tristan, in com- 
memoration of her misfortunes. Information being conveyed 
to her, that the knights intrusted with the defence of the city 



" Did my song of the summer breathe naught but 

glee? 
Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee 1 
— Oh ! hadst thou known its deep meaning well, 
It had tales of a burning heart to tell ! 
From a dream of the forest that music sprang, 
Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang ; 
And its dying fall, when it sooth'd thee best, 
Sigh'd for wild-flowers and a leafy nest." 

Was it with thee thus, my bird 1 

Yet thine eye flash'd clear and bright ; 

I have seen the glance of sudden joy 
In its quick and dewy light. 

" It flash'd with the fire of a tameless race, 
With the soul of the wild- wood, my native place ' 
With the spirit that panted through heaven to soar : 
Woo me not back — I return no more ! 
My home is high, amidst rocking trees, 
My kindred things are the star and the breeze, 
And the fount uncheck'd in its lonely play, 
And the odours that wander afar away ! " 

Farewell — farewell, then, bird ! 

I have call'd on spirits gone, 
And it may be they joy'd, like thee, to part — 

Like thee, that wert all my own ! 

" If they were captives, and pined like me, 
Though love may guard them, they joy'd to be free ; 
They sprang from the earth with a burst of power, 
To the strength of their wings, to their triumph's 

hour ! 
Call them not back when the chain is riven, 
When the way of the pinion is all through heaven! 
Farewell ! — with my song through the clouds I soar, 
I pierce the blue skies — I am earth's no more ! " 



MARGUERITE OF FRANCE. 1 



" Thou falcon-hearted dove !" — Coleridge. 

Tee Moslem spears were gleaming 

Round Damietta's towers, 
Though a Christian banner from her wall 

Waved free its lily-flowers. 

had resolved on capitulation, she had them summoned to her 
apartment ; and, by her heroic words, so wrought upon their 
spirits, that they vowed to defend her and the Cross to the 
last extremity. 



522 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 




Ay, proudly did the banner wave, 


Yield ! yield ! and let the Crescent gleam 




As queen of earth and air ; 


O'er tower and bastion high ! 




But faint hearts throb'd beneath its folds 


Our distant homes are beautiful — 




In anguish and despair. 


We stay not here to die !" 




Deep, deep in Paynim dungeon 


They bore those fearful tidings 




Their kingly chieftain lay, 


To the sad queen where she lay — • 




And low on many an Eastern field 


They told a tale of wavering hearts, 




Their knighthood's best array. 


Of treason and dismay : 




'Twas mournful, when at feasts they met, 


The blood rush'd through her pearly cheek, 




The wine-cup round to send ; 


The sparkle to her eye — 




For each that touch'd it silently 


" Now call me hither those recreant knights 




Then miss'd a gallant friend ! 


From the bands of Italy ! " x 




And mournful was their vigil 


Then through the vaulted chambers 




On the beleaguer'd wall, 


Stern iron footsteps rang ; 




And dark their slumber, dark with dreams 


And heavily the sounding floor 




Of slow defeat and fall. 


Gave back the sabre's clang. 




Yet a few hearts of chivalry 


They stood around her — steel-clad men, 




Pose high to breast the storm, 


Moulded for storm and fight, 




And one — of all the loftiest there — ■ 


But they quail'd before the loftier soul 




ThriU'd in a woman's form. 


In that pale aspect bright. 




A woman, meekly bending 


Yes ! as before the falcon shrinks 




O'er the slumber of her child, 


The bird of meaner wing, 




"With her soft, sad eyes of weeping love, 


So shrank they from th' imperial glance 




As the Virgin Mother's mild. 


Of her — that fragile thing ! 




Oh ! roughly cradled was thy babe, 


And her flute-like voice rose clear and high 




Midst the clash of spear and lance, 


Through the din of arms around — 




And a strange, wild bower was thine, young 


Sweet, and yet stirring to the soul, 




Fair Marguerite of France ! [queen ! 


As a silver clarion's sound. 




A dark and vaulted chamber, 


" The honour of the Lily 




Like a scene for wizard-spell, 


Is in your hands to keep, 




Deep in the Saracenic gloom 


And the banner of the Cross, for Him 




Of the warrior citadel ; 


Who died on Calvary's steep ; 




And there midst arms the couch was spread, 


And the city which for Christian prayer 




And with banners curtain'd o'er, 


Hath heard the holy bell — 




For the daughter of the minstrel-land, 


And is it these your hearts would yield 




The gay Provencal shore ! 


To the godless infidel ? 




For the bright queen of St Louis, 


" Then bring me here a breastplate 




The star of court and hall ! 


And a helm, before ye fly, 




But the deep strength of the gentle heart 


And I will gird my woman's form, 




Wakes to the tempest's call ! 


And on the ramparts die ! 




Her lord was in the Paynim's hold, 


And the boy whom I have borne for woe, 




His soul with grief oppress' d, 


' But never for disgrace, 




Yet calmly lay the desolate, 


Shall go within mine arms to death 




With her young babe on her breast ! 


Meet for his royal race. 




There were voices in the city, 


" Look on him as he slumbers 




Voices of wrath and fear — 


In the shadow of the lance ! 


" The walls grow weak, the strife is vain — 


1 The proposal to capitulate is attributed by the French 


We will not perish here ! 


historian to the Knights of Pisa. 











MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



52-; 



Then go, and with the Cross forsake 
The princely babe of France ! 

But tell your homes ye left one heart 
To perish undefiled ; 

A woman, and a queen, to guard 
Her honour and her child ! " 

Before her words they thrill'd, like leaves 

When winds are in the wood ; 
And a deepening murmur told of men 

Boused to a loftier mood. 
And her babe awoke to flashing swords, 

Unsheath'd in many a hand, 
As they gather'd round the helpless One, 

Again a noble band ! 

" We are thy warriors, lady ! 

True to the Cross and thee ; 
The spirit of thy kindling words 

On every sword shall be ! 
Best, with thy fair child on thy breast ! 

Best — we will guard thee well ! 
St Denis for the Lily-flower 

And the Christian citadel ! " 



THE WANDERER. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHMIDT VON LUBECK. 

I come down from the hills alone ; 
Mist wraps the vale, the billows moan ! 
I wander on in thoughtful care, 
For ever asking, sighing — where ? 

The sunshine round seems dim and cold, 
And flowers are pale, and life is old, 
And words fall soulless on my ear — 
Oh, I am still a stranger here ! 

Where art thou, land, sweet land, mine own ! 
Still sought for, long'd for, never known 1 
The land, the land of hope, of light, 
Where glow my roses freshly bright, 

And where my friends the green paths tread, 
And where in beauty rise my dead ; 
The land that speaks my native speech, 
The blessed land I may not reach ! 

I wander on in thoughtful care, 
For ever asking, sighing — where ? 
And spirit-sounds come answering this — 
" TJiere, where thou art not, there is bliss /" 



THE LAST WORDS OF THE LAST WASP 
OF SCOTLAND, 



— A jeu-d'esprit produced at this time, which owed its origin 
to a simple remark on the unseasonableness of the weather, 
made by Mrs Hemans to Mr Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, whom 
she was in the habit of seeing at Sir David Wedderburn's. 
"It is so little like summer," she said, " that I have not 
even seen a butterfly." " A butterfly ! " retorted Mr Sharpe, 
" I have not even seen a wasp ! " The next morning, as if 
in confutation of this calumny, a wasp made its appearance 
at Lady Wedderburn's breakfast table. Mrs Hemans imme- 
diately proposed that it should be made a prisoner, inclosed 
in a bottle, and sent to Mr Sharpe: this was accordingly done, 
and the piquant missive was acknowledged by him as fol- 
lows : — 

" SONNET TO A WASP, IN THE MANNER OF 
MILTON, &c, BUT MUCH SUPERIOR. 

Pooe insect ! rash as rare ! — Thy sovereign, 1 sure, 
Hath driven thee to Siberia in disgrace — 
Else what delusion could thy sense allure 
To buzz and sting in this unwholesome place, 
Where e'en the hornet's hoarser, and the race 
Of filmy wing are feeble ? Honey here 
(Scarce as its rhyme) thou find'st not. Ah, beware 
Thy golden mail, to starved Arachne dear ! 2 
Though fingers famed, that thrill the immortal lyre, 
Have pent thee up, a second Asmodeus, 
I wail thy doom — I warm thee by the fire, 
And blab our secrets — do not thou betray us ! 
I give thee liberty, I give thee breath, 
To fly from Athens, Eurus, Doctors, Death ! ! " 

To this Mrs Hemans returned the following rejoinder : — 

Sooth'd by the strain, the Wasp thus made reply— 
(The first, last time he spoke not waspishly) — 
" Too late, kind Poet ! comes thine aid, thy song, 
To aught first starved, then bottled up so long. 
Yet, for the warmth of this thy genial fire, 
Take a Wasp's blessing ere his race expire : — 
Never may provost's foot find entrance here ! 
Never may bailie's voice invade thine ear ! 
Never may housemaid wipe the verd antique 
From coin of thine — Assyrian, Celt, or Greek ! 
Never may Eurus cross thy path ! — to thee 
May winds and wynds 3 alike propitious be ! 
And when thou diest — (live a thousand years ! ) — 
May friends fill classic bottles 4 with their tears ! 

1 Beelzebub is the king of flies. 

2 A beautiful allusion to our starving weavers. 

3 Alluding to antiquarian visits to these renowned closes. 

4 Referring to certain precious lachrymatories in the pos- 
session of Mr Sharpe. 



524 



CRITIQUE ON MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



I can no more — receive my parting gasp ! — 
Bid Scotland mourn the last, last lingering Wasp 



TO CAROLINE. 

When thy bounding step I hear, 
And thy soft voice, low and clear 
When thy glancing eyes I meet, 
In their sudden laughter sweet — 
Thou, I dream, wert surely born 
For a path by care unworn ! 
Thou must be a shelter'd flower, 
With but sunshine for thy dower. 

Ah, fair child ! not e'en for thee 
May this lot of brightness be ; 
Yet, if grief must add a tone 
To thine accents now unknown ; 
If within that cloudless eye 
Sadder thought must one day lie, 
Still I trust the signs which tell 
On thy life a light shall dwell, 
Light — thy gentle spirit's own, 
From within around thee thrown. 



THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT. 



" Who does not recollect the exultation of Valiant over a flower in 
the torrid wastes of Africa ? The affecting mention of the influence of 
a flower upon the mind, by Mungo Park, in a time of suffering and 
despondency, in the heart of the same savage country, is familiar to 
every one."— Hovvitt's " Book of the Seasons." 



Why art thou thus in thy beauty cast, 

lonely, loneliest flower ! 
Where the sound of song hath never pass'd 

From human hearth or bower % 

I pity thee, for thy heart of love, 
For that glowing heart, that fain 

CRITIQUE BY PROFESSOR NORTON. 

" The [American] collection of MrsHemans' Miscellaneous 
Poems opens with verses in honour of the Pilgrim Fathers. 
She has celebrated with solemnity and truth the circumstances 
which gave sublimity to the glorious scene of their landing ; 
and their descendants cannot be but pleased to see the 
devotedness displayed by them introduced into poetry, and 
incorporated among the bright examples held up by the 



Would breathe out joy with each wind to rove — 
In vain, lost thing ! in vain ! 

I pity thee, for thy wasted bloom, 

For thy glory's fleeting hour, 
For the desert place, thy living tomb — 

lonely, loneliest flower ! 

I said' — but a low voice made reply, 

" Lament not for the flower ! 
Though its blossoms all unmark'd must die, 

They have had a glorious dower. 

" Though it bloom afar from the minstrel's way, 
And the paths where lovers tread ; 

Yet strength and hope, like an inborn day, 
By its odours have been shed. 

" Yes ! dews more sweet than ever fell 

O'er island of the blest, 
Were shaken forth, from its purple bell, 

On a suffering human breast. 

" A wanderer came, as a stricken deer, 

O'er the waste of burning sand, 
He bore the wound of an Arab spear, 

He fled from a ruthless band. 

" And dreams of home in a troubled tide 

Swept o'er his darkening eye, 
As he lay down by the fountain-side, 

In his mute despair to die. 

" But his glance was caught by the desert's flower, 

The precions boon of heaven ; 
And sudden hope, like a vernal shower, 

To his fainting heart was given. 

"For the bright flower spoke of One above — 

Of the presence felt to brood, 
With a spirit of pervading love, 

O'er the wildest solitude. 

" Oh ! the seed was thrown those wastes among 

In a bless'd and gracious hour, 
For the lorn one rose in heart made strong 

By the lonely, loneliest flower !" 

inventive as well as the historic muse for the admiration of 
mankind. 

" Freedom, not licentiousness — religious freedom, not the 
absence of religious rites — was the object for which the fathers 
came. An air of earnestness was thus originally imparted to 
the character of the country, and succeeding ages have not 
worn it away. Though it may suit the humour of moralisers 
to declaim against the degeneracy of the times, we believe 



CRITIQUE ON MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



525 



that the country has of late years made advances in moral 
worth. We infer this from the more general diffusion of in- 
telligence, and the higher standard of learning ; from the 
spirit of healthy action pervading all classes ; from the 
diminished number of crimes ; from the general security of 
property ; from the rapid multiplication of Sabbath schools, 
than which no discovery of our age has been more important 
for the moral education of the people ; from the philanthropy 
which seeks for the sources of vice, and restrains it by remov- 
ing its causes ; from the active and compassionate benevolence, 
which does not allow itself to consider any class so vicious or 
so degraded as to have forfeited its claim to humane atten- 
tion — which seeks and relieves misery wherever it is concealed, 
and, embracing every continent in its regard, has its mes- 
sengers in the remotest regions of the world. Religious free- 
dom is the last right which, even in our days, the inhabitants 
of this country would surrender. It would be easier to drive 
them from their houses and their lands, than to take from 
them the liberty of worshipping God according to the dictates 
of conscience. There is no general assertion of this right, and 
no energetic display of zeal in maintaining it, solely because 
it is menaced by no alarming danger. 

"In a state of society like ours, there may be little room 
for the exercise of those arts of which it is the chief aim to 
amuse and delight ; and yet attention is by no means con- 
fined to those objects which are directly connected with the 
advancement of personal or public wealth. For the costly 
luxuries of life, and even for its elegant pleasures, there may 
as yet be little room ; and still the morality of the nation be 
far from forming itself on the new system of morals devised 
by our political economists. There has been no age — we assert 
it with confidence — there has been no people, where the efforts 
of mind, directly connected with the preservation of elevated 
feeling and religious earnestness, are more valued than they 
are by the better part of our own community. We can no 
support, or we hold it not best to support, an expensive reli- 
gious establishment ; but every where the voice of religious 
homage and instruction is heard : we cannot set apart large 
estates to give splendour to literary distinction ; but you will 
hardly find a retired nook, where only a few families seek their 
shelter near each other, so destitute, that the elements of 
knowledge are not freely taught : we cannot establish galleries 
for the various works of the arts of design ; but the eye that 
can see the beauties of nature is common with us, and the 
recital of deeds of high worth meets with ready listeners. The 
luxuries, which are for display, are exceedingly little known ; 
but the highest value is set on every effort of mind connected 
with the investigation of truth, or the nurture of generous 
and elevated sentiments. 

" Where the public mind had been thus formed, the poetry 
of Mrs Hemans was sure to find admirers. The exercise of 
genius, if connected with no respect for virtue, might have 
remained unnoticed ; the theory, which treats of beauty as 
of something independent of moral effect, is still without 
advocates among us. It has thus far been an undisputed 
axiom that, if a production is indecent or immoral, it for that 
very reason cannot claim to be considered beautiful. 

*' We do not go so far as to assert, that there can be no 
merit in works of which the general tendency is immoral ; but 
the merit, if there is any, does not lie in the immoral part, in 
the charm that is thrown round vice, but rather in an occa- 
sional gleam of better principles, in nature occasionally mak- 
ing her voice heard above the din of the dissolute, in the pic- 
tures of loveliness and moral truth that shine out through the 
darkness. Amidst all the horrors and depravity of supersti- 
tion, the strange and the abominable vagaries of the human 



imagination, exercised on religion in heathenish ignorance, 
the observing mind may yet recognise the spirit that connects 
man with a better world. And so it is with poetry : amidst 
all the confusion which is manifest where the heavenly gift is 
under the control of a corrupted judgment, something of its 
native lustre will still appear. When we see the poet of tran- 
scendent genius delineating any thing but the higher part of 
our nature ; when we observe how, after borrowing fiendish 
colours, he describes states of mind with which devils only 
should have sympathy, rails at human nature in a style which 
spiteful misanthropy alone can approve, or gives descriptions 
of sensuality fit only for the revels of Comus ; when we see 
him ' hurried down the adulterate age, adding pollutions of 
his own,' we can have little to say to excuse or to justify 
an admiration of poetic talent, till we are reconciled to 
human nature and the muse by the pure lustre of better-guided 
minds. 

' ' In what view of the subject can it be held a proper design 
of poetry to render man hateful to himself ? How can it de- 
light or instruct us to see our fellow-men ranged under the 
two classes of designing villains and weak dupes ? Or what 
sources of poetic inspiration are left, if all the relations of 
social life are held up to derision , and every generous impulse 
scorned as the result of deluded confidence ? 

" To demand that what is called poetical justice should be 
found in every performance may be unreasonable, since the 
events of life do not warrant us in expecting it ; but we may 
demand what is of much more importance, moral justice — a 
consistency of character, a conformity of the mind to its 
career of action. It may not be inconsistent with reality, 
though it is with probability, that an unprincipled miscreant, 
governing himself in his gratifications by the narrowest sel- 
fishness, should be successful in his pursuits ; but it is unna- 
tural and false to give to such a nature any of the attributes 
of goodness. Vice is essentially mean and low ; it has no 
dignity, no courage, no beauty ; and while the poet can never 
impart to a production, tending to promote vice, the power 
and interest which belong to the worthy delineation of honour- 
able actions, he can never invest a false heart with the noble 
qualities of a generous one. Observe in this respect the man- 
ner of the dramatic poet, who is acknowledged to have de- 
lineated the passions with the greatest fidelity. Shakspeare 
describes the mind as gradually sinking under the influence 
of the master-passion. It stamps itself on the whole soul, and 
obliterates all the finer traces in which humanity had written 
a witness of gentler qualities. Macbeth is a moral picture of 
terrific sublimity, and an illustration of that moral justice 
which we contend should never be wanting. The one strong 
passion moulds the character, and blasts every tender senti- 
ment. When once Othello is jealous, his judgment is gone ; 
the selfishness of Richard leads to wanton cruelty. In one of 
Shakspeare's tragedies, not a crime, but a fault is the found- 
ation of the moral interest. Here, too. he is consistent ; 
and the irresolution of Hamlet leaves his mind without energy, 
and his contending passions without terror. We might 
explain our views by examples from the comedies of the great 
dramatist, but Macbeth and Richard furnish the clearest 
illustration of them. And it is in such exhibitions of the 
power of vice to degrade, that ' gorgeous tragedy ' performs 
her severest office; lifting up the pall which hides the ghast- 
liness of unprincipled depravity, and showing us, where vice 
gains control, the features, that before may have been re- 
splendent with loveliness, marred and despoiled of all their 
sweet expression. 

" There can, then, be no more hideous fault in a literary 
work than profligacy. Levity is next in order. The disposi- 



526 



CRITIQUE ON MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



tion to trifle with topics of the highest moment — to apply the 
levelling principle to the emotions of the human mind, to hold 
up to ridicule the exalted thoughts and kindling aspirations 
of which human nature is capable — can at best charm those 
only who have failed to enter the true avenues to happiness. 
Such works may be popular, because the character of the 
public mind may for a season be corrupt. A literature, con- 
sisting of such works, is the greatest evil with which a nation 
can be cursed. National poverty is nothing in comparison, 
for poverty is remedied by prudent enterprise ; but such works 
poison the life-blood of the people, the moral vigour, which 
alone can strive for liberty and honour. The apologists for 
this class of compositions, in which Voltaire and La Fontaine 
are the greatest masters, defend it on the ground that it is 
well adapted to give pleasure to minds which have been ac- 
customed to it, and that foreigners need only a different 
moral education to be able to enjoy it. Now, without wast- 
ing a word on the enormity of defending what is intrinsically 
sensual, we reply merely on the score of effect. He who 
adapts his inventions to a particular state of society, can 
please no further ; he depends on circumstances for his popu- 
larity ; he does not appeal to man, but to accidental habits, 
a fleeting state of the public mind ; he is the poet, not of 
nature, but of a transient fashion. The attraction which 
comes from the strangeness or novelty of the manner is of 
very little value. On the most brilliant night a meteor would 
be followed by all eyes for a while ; and why ? Because it is 
as evanescent as bright ; we must gaze at once, or it will be 
too late. Yet the mind soon returns to the contemplation of 
the eternal stars which light up the heavens with enduring 
lustre. Any popularity, obtained by gratifying a perverse 
taste, is essentially transitory ; while all that is benevolent and 
social, all that favours truth and goodness, is of universal and 
perpetual interest. 

" These are but plain inferences from facts in the history 
of literature. The plays of Dryden were written to please an 
audience of a vicious taste ; they may have been received with 
boisterous applause, but nobody likes them now, though in 
their form not unsuited to the stage ; and as for the grossest 
scenes, any merit in the invention is never spoken of as com- 
pensating for their abominable coarseness. On the other 
hand, Milton's Comus, though in its form entirely antiquated, 
has the beautiful freshness of everlasting youth, delights the 
ardent admirer of good poetry, and is always showing new 
attractions to the careful critic. And where lies this immense 
difference in the lasting effect of these two writers ? Dryden, 
it is true, fell far short of Milton in poetic genius ; but the 
true cause lies in this, — virtue, which is the soul of song, is 
wanting in the plays of Dryden, while the poetry of Milton 
bears the impress of his own magnanimity. 

" We are contending for no sickly morality : we would shut 
out the poet from the haunts of libertinism, not from the 
haunts of men ; we would have him associate with his fellows, 
hold intercourse with the great minds that light up the gloom 
of ages, and share in the best impulses of human nature, and 
not, under the influence of a too delicate sensibility, treat 
only of the harmless flowers, and the innocent birds, and the 
exhilarating charm of agreeable scenery ; and still less, in the 
spirit of a sullen misanthropy, delight in obscure abstractions, 
find comfort only in solitude, and rejoice, or pretend to re- 
joice, chiefly in the mountains, and the ocean, and the low 
places of the earth. Their pursuit of moral beauty does not 
lead to an affected admiration , or an improper idolatry of the 
visible creation. The genius of the poet can impart a portion 
of its eloquence to the external world, and elevate creation by 
connecting it with moral associations. But descriptions, 



except of scenes where moral beings are to move, possess little 
interest. If landscape-painting is an inferior branch of that 
art, though the splendid works of Claude demand praise with- 
out measure, landscape poetry is a kind of affectation, an un- 
natural result of excessive refinement. Description is impor- 
tant, but subordinate. The external world, with all its gor- 
geousness and varied forms of beauty ; the cataract, ' with its 
glory of reflected light ;' the forests, as they wave in the 
brilliancy of early summer ; the flowers, that are crowded in 
gardens, or waste their sweetness on the desert air ; ' the 
noise of the hidden brook, that all night long in the leafy 
months sings its quiet tune to the sleeping woods ;' the ocean, 
whether reposing in tranquil majesty or tossed by the tem- 
pest ; night, when the heavens are glittering with the splen- 
dour of the constellations ; morning, when one perfect splen- 
dour beams in the sky, and is reflected in a thousand colours 
from the glittering earth — these are not the sublimest themes 
that awaken the energies of the muse. It is mind, and mind 
only, which can exhibit the highest beauty. The hymn of 
martyrdom, the strength by which the patriot girds himself 
to die, ' God's breath in the soul of man,' the unconquerable 
power of generous passion, the hopes and sorrows of humanity 
— love, devotion, and all the deep and bright springs of affec- 
tion — these are higher themes of permanent interest and ex- 
alted character. 

" Here, too, we find an analogy between poeticand religious 
feeling. The image of God is to be sought for, not so much 
in the outward world as in the mind. No combination of 
inanimate matter can equal the sublimity and wonderful 
power of life. To impart organic life, with the power of repro- 
duction, is a brighter display of Omnipotence than any ar- 
rangement of the inanimate, material world. A swarm of 
flies, as through their short existence they buzz and wheel in 
the summer's sun, offer as clear, and, to some minds, a clearer 
demonstration of Omnipotence, than the everlasting, but 
silent, courses of the planets. But moral life is the highest 
creation of divine power. We, at least, know and can con- 
ceive of none higher. We are, therefore, not to look for God 
among the rivers and the forests, nor yet among the planets 
and the stars, but in the hearts of men ; he is not the God of 
the dead, but of the living. 

' ' Those who accord with the general views which we have 
here maintained, will be prepared to express unqualified ap- 
probation of the literary career of Mrs Hemans. Had her 
writings been merely harmless, we should not have entered 
into an analysis of them ; but the moral charm which is spread 
over them is so peculiar, so full of nature, and truth, and deep 
feeling, that her productions claim at once the praise of ex- 
quisite purity and poetic excellence. She adds the dignity of 
her sex to a high sense of the duties of a poet ; she writes with 
buoyancy, yet with earnestness ; her poems bear the impress 
of a character worthy of admiration. In the pursuit of literary 
renown, she never forgets what is due to feminine reserve. 
We perceive a mind endowed with powers to aspire, and are 
stiU further pleased to find no unsatisfied cravings, no pas- 
sionate pursuit of remote objects, but high endowments, 
graced by contentment. There is plainly the consciousness 
of the various sorrow to which life is exposed, and with it the 
spirit of resignation . She sets before herself a clear and ex- 
alted idea of what a female writer should be, and is on the 
way to realise her own idea of excellence. Living in domestic 
retirement, in a beautiful part of Wales, it is her own feelings 
and her own experience which she communicates to us. We 
cannot illustrate our meaning better, than by introducing our 
readers at once to Mrs Hemans herself, as she describes to us 
the occupations of a day. 



CKITIQUE ON MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



527 



AN HOUR OF ROMANCE. 

'There were thick leaves above me and around, 
And low sweet sighs, like those of childhoods sleep, 
Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound 
As of soft showers on water,' etc. etc. 

" The poetry is here as beautiful as the scene described is 
quiet and pleasing. It forms an amiable picture of the occu- 
pations of a contemplative mind. The language, versification, 
and imagery, are of great merit, the beauties of nature de- 
scribed by a careful observer ; the English scene is placed in 
happy contrast with the Eastern, and the dream of romance 
pleasantly disturbed by the cheerfulness of life. But we make 
but sorry work at commenting on what the reader must feel. 

" It has been said that religion can never be made a sub- 
ject of interest in poetry. The position is a false one, refuted 
by the close alliance between poetic inspiration and sacred 
enthusiasm. Irreligion has certainly no place in poetry. 
There may have been Atlieist philosophers ; an Atheist poet 
is an impossibility. The poet may doubt and reason like 
Hamlet, but the moment he acquiesces in unbelief, there is 
an end to the magic of poetry. Imagination can no longer 
throw lively hues over the creation : the forests cease to be 
haunted ; the sea, and the air, and the heavens, to teem with 
life. The highest interest, we think, attaches to Mrs Hemans's 
writings, from the spirit of Christianity which pervades them. 

" The poetry of our author is tranquillising in its character, 
calm and serene. We beg pardon of the lovers of excitement, 
but we are seriously led to take notice of this quality as of a 
high merit. A great deal has been said of the sublimity of 
directing the passions ; we hold it a much more difficult and 
a much more elevated task, to restrain them. It may be sub- 
lime to ride on the whirlwind, and direct the storm ; but it 
seems to us still more sublime to appease the storm, and still 
the whirlwind. Virgil, no mean authority, was of this opinion. 
The French are reported to be particularly fond of effect and 
display ; but we remember to have read that, even in the 
splendid days of Napoleon, the simplicity of vocal music sur- 
passed in effect the magnificence of a numerous band. It was 
when Napoleon was crowned Emperor in the Cathedral of 
Notre Dame. The Parisians, wishing to distinguish the 
occasion by some novel exhibition, and to produce a great 
effect, filled the orchestra with eighty harps, which were all 
struck together with unequalled skill. The fashionable world 
was in raptures. Presently the Pope entered, and some 
thirty of his singers, who came with him from Rome, received 
him with the powerful Tu es Petrus of the old-fashioned Scar- 
latti ; and the simple majesty of the air, assisted by no instru- 
ments, annihilated in a moment the whole effect of the pre- 
ceding fanfaronade. And in literature the public taste seems 
tousalready weary of those productions which aim at astonish- 
ing and producing a great effect, and there is now an oppor- 
tunity of pleasing by the serenityof contemplative excellence. 

"It is the high praise of Mrs Hemans's poetry that it is 
feminine. The sex may well be pleased with her productions, 
for they could hardly have a better representative in the 
career of letters. All her works seem to come from the heart, 
to be natural and true. The poet can give us nothing but the 
form under which the objects he describes present themselves 
to his own mind. That form must be noble, or it is not 
worthy of our consideration ; it must be consistent, or it will 
fail to be true. Now, in the writings of Mrs Hemans, we 
are shown how life and its concerns appear to woman, and 
hear a mother intrusting to verse her experience and obser- 
vation. So, in ' The Hebrew Mother,' ' the spring-tide of 



nature ' swells high as she parts from her son, on devoting him 
to the service of the Temple : — 

' Alas, my boy ! thy gentle grasp is on me, 
The bright tears quiver in thy pleading eyes, 

And now fond thoughts arise, 
And silver cords again to earth have won me, 
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart — 

How shall I hence depart ? 



' And oh ! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted, 
Will it not seem as if the sunny day 

Turn'd from its door away ? 
While through its chambers wandering, weary-hearted, 
I languish for thy voice, which past me still 

Went like a singing rill ? 

• I give thee to thy God— the God that gave thee, 
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart ! 

And, precious as thou art, 
And pure as dew of Hermon, He shall have thee, 
My own, my beautiful, my undefined ! 

And thou shalt be His child. 

' Therefore, farewell ! I go— my soul may fail me, 
As the hart panteth for the water-brooks, 

Yearning for thy sweet looks. 
But thou, my first-born ! droop not, nor bewail me ; 
Thou in the Shadow of the Rock shalt dwell, 

The Rock of Strength.— Farewell ! ' 

" The same high feeling of maternal duty and love inspires 
the little poem, 'The Wreck,' which every one has read. 
* The Lady of the Castle,' ' The Grave of Korner,' ' The 
Graves of a Household,' are all on domestic subjects. But 
why do we allude to poems which are in every one's hands ? 
The mother's voice breaks out again in the piece entitled 
' Elysium.' Children, according to the heathen mythology, 
were banished to the infernal regions, and religious faith had 
no consolation for a mourning parent. 

* Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier, 
"Unlike a gift of Nature to Decay, 
Too roselike still, too beautiful, too dear, 
The child at rest before its mother lay ; 

E'en so to pass away, 
With its bright smile ! Elysium ! what wert thou 
To her who wept o'er that young slumberer's brow ? 

' Thou hadst no home, green land ' 
For the fair creature from her bosom gone, 
With life's fresh flowers just opening in its hand, 
And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown, 

Which in its clear eye shone 
Like spring's first wakening ! But that light was past — 
— Where went the dewdrop swept before the blast ? 

' Not where thy soft winds play'd, 
Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep ! — 
Fade with thy bowers, thou land of visions ! fade ' 
From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep, 

And bade man cease to weep ! 
Fade, with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove, 
Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love ! 

' For the most loved are they 
Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice 
In regal halls ! The shades o'erhang their way ; 
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, 

And gentle hearts rejoice 
Around their steps ; till silently they die, 
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. 

' And the world knows not then — 
Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled ! 
Tet these are they, who on the souls of men 
Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread, 

The long-remember'd dead ! 
But not with thee might aught save glory dwell — 
Fade, fade away, thou shore of asphodel ! ' 



528 



HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD. 



"And the same feelings of a woman and mother dictated 
4 The Evening Prayer at a Girls' School,'— a poem which 
merits to be considered in connexion with Gray's ' Ode on 
a Distant Prospect of Eton College.' 

' joyous crpatures ! that will sink to rest, 
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,' etc. 

" Of other spirited, and lively, and pathetic short poems of 
Mrs Hemans, which form some of the brightest ornaments of 
the lyric poetry of the language, we take no particular notice 
— for in what part of the United States are they not known ? 
So general has been the attention to those of her pieces adapted 
to the purposes of a newspaper, we hardly fear to assert that, 
throughout a great part of this country, there is not a family 
of the middling class in which some of them have not been read. 
The praise which was not sparingly bestowed upon her, when 
her shorter first productions became generally known among 
us, has been often repeated on a careful examination of her 
works ; and could we hope that our remarks might one day 
fall under her eye, we should hope she would not be indiffer- 
ent to the good wishes which are offered her from America, 
but feel herself cheered and encouraged in her efforts, by the 
prospect of an enlarged and almost unlimited field of useful 
influence, opened to her among the descendants of her coun- 
try in an independent land. The ocean divides us from the 
fashions as well as the commotions of Europe. The voice of 
America, deciding on the literature of England, resembles the 
voice of posterity more nearly than any thing else, that is 
contemporaneous, can do. We believe that the general atten- 



tion which has been given to Mrs Hemans's works among us, 
may be regarded as a pledge that they will not be received 
with indifference by posterity." — North American Review. 

[At the conclusion of " The Records " we gave the opinions 
of one of our most celebrated Cisatlantic critics regarding the 
poetry of Mrs Hemans, and we think it but right to show now 
(as has just been done) the general estimate in which her genius 
is held in America, as evidenced by the North American 
Review, the best-known and most widely-circulated of the 
Transatlantic periodicals. 

Judging from the state of feeling in America — from the 
ideas of practical philosophy entertained there — and from the 
pervading utilitarian bias of its prose literature, we must con- 
fess that, had we been asked to name any votary of the British 
muse more likely than another to be appreciated in that coun- 
try, we should have had very little hesitation in fixing upon 
Crabbe. And why ? Because his poetry is characterised by 
a stern adherence to the realities of life, as contradistinguished 
from romance, and because his characters and situations are 
taken from existing aspects of society, appreciable by all. In 
this theory it appears we are wrong ; and Professor Norton 
has here done his best to account for it. We are most given 
to admire what is least attainable ; and therefore it is that the 
spiritual glow which Mrs Hemans has blent with human 
sentiment — the imaginative beauty with which she has clothed 
" the shows of earth and heaven," — and the leaven ofromance 
which she has infused into the communications of daily 
life, have, as lucus a non lucendo, been elements of, and not 
the impediments to, her American popularity.] 



HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD. 



[We are quite aware that the Hymns for Childhood were written at a much earlier period than that which we have here 
chronologically assigned them. They had been sent to Professor Norton for the use of his children, and were printed under 
his auspices at Boston, New England, so early as 1827. Not, however, having had an opportunity of seeing the original 
American edition, we are in the dark as to whether the hymns in it were the same in number as those published in Dublin 
under the eye of the author, or whether she afterwards revised and altered them. It has been therefore judged best to place 
them here in the order of publication, and as they appeared in this country under the supervision of Mrs Hemans herself. The 
hymns (as they deserved to be) were very favourably received by the public, and it is only to be regretted that Mrs Hemans did 
not from time to time add to their number. She thus wrote to Mrs Lawrence with a presentation copy of her little book : — " I send 
you the fairy volume of hymns. You will immediately see how unpretending a little book it is ; but it will give you pleasure 
to know that it has been received in the most gratifying manner, having seemed (as a playful child might have done) to win 
criticism into a benignant smile." — Vide Letter to Mrs Lawrence, Recollections, p. 354.] 



INTRODUCTORY VERSES. 

Oh ! blest art thou whose steps may rove 
Through the green paths of vale and grove, 
Or, leaving all their charms below, 
Climb the wild mountain's airy brow ; 

And gaze afar o'er cultured plains, 
And cities with their stately fanes, 
And forests, that beneath thee lie, 
And ocean mingling with the sky. 



For man can show thee naught so fair 
As Nature's varied marvels there ; 
And if thy pure and artless breast 
Can feel their grandeur, thou art blest ! 

For thee the stream in beauty flows, 
For thee the gale of summer blows ; 
And, in deep glen and wood-walk free, 
Voices of joy still breathe for thee. 

But happier far, if then thy soul 

Can soar to Him who made the whole, 



HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD. 529 


If to thine eye the simplest flower 


Shall, in their course, bid man behold 


Portray His bounty and His power ! 


Seed-time and harvest still ; 


If, in whate'er is bright or grand. 


That still the flower shall deck the field, 


Thy mind can trace His viewless hand ; 


When vernal zephyrs blow, 


If Nature's music bid thee raise 


That still the vine its fruit shall yield, 


Thy song of gratitude and praise ; 


When autumn sunbeams glow. 


If heaven and earth, with beauty fraught, 


Then, child of that fair earth ! which yet 


Lead to His throne thy raptured thought ; 


Smiles with each charm endow'd, 


If there thou lovest His love to read — 


Bless thou His name, whose mercy set 


Then, wanderer ! thou art blest indeed. 


The rainbow in the cloud ! 


THE RAINBOW. 





" I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall he for a token of a 


THE SUN. 


covenant between me and the earth."— Genesis, ix. 13. 




Soft falls the mild, reviving shower 


The Sun comes forth : each mountain-height 


From April's changeful skies, 


Glows with a tinge of rosy light, 


And rain-drops bend each trembling flower 


And flowers that slumber'd through the night 


They tinge with richer dyes. 


Their dewy leaves unfold; 




A flood of splendour bursts on high, 


Soon shall their genial influence call 


And ocean's breast gives back a sky 


A thousand buds to day, 


All steep'd in molten gold. 


"Which, waiting but that balmy fall, 




In hidden beauty lay. 


Oh ! thou art glorious, orb of day ! 




Exulting nations hail thy ray, 


E'en now full many a blossom's bell 


Creation swells a choral lay 


With fragrance fills the shade ; 


To welcome thy return ; 


And verdure clothes each grassy dell, 


From thee all nature draws her hues, 


In brighter tints array'd. 


Thy beams the insect's wing suffuse, 




And in the diamond burn. 


But mark ! what arch of varied hue 




From heaven to earth is bow'd 1 


Yet must thou fade ! When earth and heaven 


Haste, ere it vanish ! — haste to view 


By fire and tempest shall be riven, 


The rainbow in the cloud ! 


Thou, from thy sphere of radiance driven, 




Sun ! must fall at last ; 


How bright its glory ! there behold 


Another heaven, another earth, 


The emerald's verdant rays, 


New power, new glory shall have birth, 


The topaz blends its hue of gold 


When all we see is past. 


With the deep ruby's blaze. 






But He who gave the word of might, 


Yet not alone to charm thy sight 


" Let there be light," — and there teas light, 


Was given the vision fair — 


Who bade thee chase the gloom of night, 


Gaze on that arch of colour'd light, 


And beam the world to bless ; 


And read God's mercy there. 


For ever bright, for ever pure, 




Alone unchanging shall endure, 


It tells us that the mighty deep, 


The Sun of Righteousness ! 


Fast by the Eternal chain' d, 




No more o'er earth's domain shall sweep, 





Awful and unrestrain'd. 


THE RIVERS. 


It tells that seasons, heat and cold, 


Go ! trace th' unnumber'd streams, o'er earth 


Fix'd by his sovereign will, 


That wind their devious course, 


L 


L 



530 HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


That draw from Alpine heights their birth, 


Child of the earth ! oh, lift thy glance 


Deep vale, or cavern-source. 


To yon bright firmament's expanse ; 




The glories of its realm explore, 


Some by majestic cities glide, 


And gaze, and wonder, and adore ! 


Proud scenes of man's renown ; 




Some lead their solitary tide 


Doth it not speak to every sense 


Where pathless forests frown. 


The marvels of Omnipotence ? 




Seest thou not there the Almighty name 


Some calmly roll o'er golden sands, 


Inscribed in characters of flame 1 


Where Afric's deserts he ; 




Or spread, to clothe rejoicing lands 


Count o'er these lamps of quenchless light, 


With rich fertility. 


That sparkle through the shades of night : 




Behold them ! can a mortal boast 


These bear the bark, whose stately sail 


To number that celestial host ? 


Exulting seems to swell ; 




While these, scarce rippled by a gale, 


Mark well each little star, whose rays 


Sleep in the lonely dell. 


In distant splendour meet thy gaze : 




Each is a world, by Him sustain d 


Yet on, alike, though swift or slow 


Who from eternity hath reign'd. 


Their various waves may sweep, 




Through cities or through shades, they flow 


Each, kindled not for earth alone, 


To the same boundless deep. 


Hath circling planets of its own, 




And beings, whose existence springs 


Oh ! thus, whate'er our path of life, 


From Him, the all-powerful King of kings. 


Through sunshine or through gloom, 




Through scenes of quiet or of strife, 


Haply, those glorious beings know 


Its end is still the tomb. 


No stain of guilt, or tear of woe ; 




But, raising still the adoring voice, 


The chief whose mighty deeds we hail, 


For ever in their God rejoice. 


The monarch throned on high, 




The peasant in his native vale — 


What then art thou, child of clay ! 


All journey on to die ! 


Amid creation's grandeur, say ] 




E'en as an insect on the breeze, 


But if Thy guardian care, my God ! 


E'en as a dew-drop, lost in seas ! 


The pilgrim's course attend, 




I will not fear the dark abode 


Yet fear thou not ! The sovereign hand 


To which my footsteps bend. 


Which spread the ocean and the land, 




And hung the rolling spheres in air, 


For thence thine all-redeeming Son, 


Hath, e'en for thee, a Father's care ! 


Who died the world to save, 




In light, in triumph, rose, and won 


Be thou at peace ! The all-seeing Eye, 


The victory from the grave ! 


Pervading earth, and air, and sky — 




The searching glance which none may flee, 





Is still in mercy turn'd on thee. 


THE STAES. 





" The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament 


THE OCEAN. 


showeth his handy-work." — Psalm xix. 1. 






"They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in 


No cloud obscures the summer sky, 


great waters ; these see the works of the Lord, and his wonders 
in the deep." — Psalm cvii. 23, 34. 


The moon in brightness walks on high ; 




And, set in azure, every star 


He that in venturous barks hath been 


Shines, a pure gem of heaven, afar ! 


A wanderer on the deep, 



HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD. 



531 



Can tell of many an awful scene, 
Where storms for ever sweep. 

For many a fair, majestic sight 

Hath met his wandering eye, 
Beneath the streaming northern light, 

Or blaze of Indian sky. 

Go ! ask him of the whirlpool's roar, 

Whose echoing thunder peals 
Loud, as if rush'd along the shore 

An army's chariot- wheels ; 

Of icebergs, floating o'er the main, 

Or fix'd upon the coast, 
Like glittering citadel or fane, 

Mid the bright realms of frost ; 

Of coral rocks from waves below 

In steep ascent that tower, 
And, fraught with peril, daily grow, 

Form'd by an insect's power ; 

Of sea-fires, which at dead of night 

Shine o'er the tides afar, 
And make the expanse of ocean bright, 

As heaven with many a star. 

God ! thy name they well may praise 

Who to the deep go down, 
And trace the wonders of thy ways 

Where rocks and billows frown ! 

If glorious be that awful deep 

No human power can bind, 
What then art Thou, who bid'st it keep 

Within its bounds confined ! 

Let heaven and earth in praise unite ! 

Eternal praise to Thee, 
Whose word can rouse the tempest's might, 

Or still the raging sea ! 



THE THUNDER-STORM. 

Deep, fiery clouds o'ercast the sky, 

Dead stillness reigns in air ; 
There is not e'en a breeze, on high 

The gossamer to bear. 

The woods are hush'd, the waves at rest, 
The lake is dark and still, 



Reflecting on its shadowy breast 
Each form of rock and hill. 

The lime-leaf waves not in the grove, 

The rose-tree in the bower ; 
The birds have ceased their songs of love, 

Awed by the threatening hour. 

'Tis noon; — yet nature's calm profound 

Seems as at midnight deep : 
But hark ! what peal of awful sound 

Breaks on creation's sleep 1 

The thunder-burst ! — its rolling might 

Seems the firm hills to shake ; 
And in terrific splendour bright 

The gather'd lightnings break. 

Yet fear not, shrink not thou, my child ! 

Though by the bolt's descent 
Were the tall cliffs in rums piled, 

And the wide forests rent. 

Doth not thy God behold thee still, 

With all -surveying eye ] 
Doth not his power all nature fill, 

Around, beneath, on high ] 

Know, hadst thou eagle-pinions free, 

To track the realms of air, 
Thou couldst not reach a spot, where He 

Would not be with thee there ! 

In the wide city's peopled towers, 

On the vast ocean's plains, 
Midst the deep woodland's loneliest bowers, 

Alike the Almighty reigns ! 

Then fear not, though the angry sky 

A thousand darts should cast ; 
Why should we tremble, e'en to die, 

And be with Him at last ] 



THE BIRDS. 

Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings; and not one of 
them is forgotten before God ?"— St Luke, xii. 6. 

Tribes of the air ! whose favour'd race 
May wander through the realms of space, 

Free guests of earth and sky ; 
In form, in plumage, and in song, 
What gifts of nature mark your throng 

With bright variety ! 



532 HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD. 


Nor differ less your forms, your flight, 


Trust in His love ; and e'en should pain, 


Your dwellings hid from hostile sight, 


Should sorrow, tempt thee to complain, 


And the wild haunts ye love ; 


Know what He wills is best ! 


Birds of the gentle beak ! 1 how dear 




Your wood-note to the wanderer's ear, 





In shadowy vale or grove ! 






THE SKY-LARK. 


Far other scenes, remote, sublime, 




Where swain or hunter may not climb 


child's mobning hymn. 


The mountain-eagle seeks ; 




Alone he reigns a monarch there, 


The sky-lark, when the dews of morn 


Scarce will the chamois' footstep dare 


Hang tremulous on flower and thorn, 


Ascend his Alpine peaks. 


And violets round his nest exhale 




Their fragrance on the early gale, 


Others there are that make their home 


To the first sunbeam spreads his wings, 


Where the white billows roar and foam 


Buoyant with joy, and soars and sings. 


Around the o'erhanging rock ; 




Fearless they skim the angry wave, 


He rests not on the leafy spray 


Or, shelter'd in their sea-beat cave, 


To warble his exulting lay ; 


The tempest's fury mock. 


But high above the morning cloud 




Mounts in triumphant freedom proud, 


Where Afric's burning realm expands, 


And swells, when nearest to the sky, 


The ostrich haunts the desert-sands, 


His notes of sweetest ecstasy. 


Parch'd by the blaze of day ; 




The swan, where northern rivers glide, 


Thus, my Creator ! thus the more 


Through the tall reeds that fringe their tide 


My spirit's wing to Thee can soar, 


Floats graceful on her way. 


The more she triumphs to behold 




Thy love in all thy works unfold, 


The condor, where the Andes tower, 


And bids her hymns of rapture be 


Spreads his broad wing of pride and power, 


Most glad, when rising most to Thee ! 


And many a storm defies ; 




Bright in the Orient realms of morn, 





All beauty's richest hues adorn 




The bird of paradise. 


THE NIGHTINGALE. 


Some, amidst India's groves of palm, 


child's evening hymn. 


And spicy forests breathing balm, 




Weave soft their pendant nest ; 


When twilight's gray and pensive hour 


Some, deep in Western wilds, display 


Brings the low breeze, and shuts the flower, 


Their fairy form and plumage gay, 


And bids the solitary star 


In rainbow colours drest. 


Shine in pale beauty from afar ; 


Others no varied song may pour, 


When gathering shades the landscape veil, 


May boast no eagle-plume to soar, 


And peasants seek their village-dale, 


No tints of light may wear ; 


And mists from river-wave arise, 


Yet know, our Heavenly Father guides 


And dew in every blossom lies ; 


The least of these, and well provides 




For each, with tenderest care. 


When evening's primrose opes to shed 




Soft fragrance round her grassy bed ; 


Shall He not then thy guardian be ] 


When glow-worms in the wood-walk light 


Will not His aid extend to thee ? 


Their lamp to cheer the traveller's sight ; — 1 


Oh, safely may'st thou rest ! — 




1 The Italians call all singing-birds, birds of the gentle 


At that calm hour, so still, so pale, 


beak. 


Awakes the lonely nightingale ; 






HYMNS FOR CHILDHOOD. 533 


And from a hermitage of shade 


And summon those he loves on high, 


Fills with her voice the forest glade. 


To "put on immortality ! " 


And sweeter far that melting voice 


Then, all its transient sufferings o'er, 


Than all which through the day rejoice ; 


On wings of light the soul shall soar, 


And still shall bard and wanderer love 


Exulting, to that blest abode 


The twilight music of the grove. 


Where tears of sorrow never fiow'd. 


Father in heaven ! oh, thus when day 




With all its cares hath pass'd away, 




And silent hours waft peace on earth, 
And hush the louder strains of mirth ; 


PARAPHRASE OF PSALM CXLVIII. 




" Praise ye the Lord. Praise ye the Lord from the heavens : 


Thus may sweet songs of praise and prayer 


praise him in the heights." 


To Thee my spirit's offering bear — 


Praise ye the Lord ! on every height 


Yon star, my signal, set on high, 


Songs to his glory raise ! 


For vesper-hymns of piety. 


Ye angel-hosts, ye stars of night, 




Join in immortal praise ! 


So may Thy mercy and Thy power 




Protect me through the midnight hour, 


heaven of heavens! let praise far-swelling 


And balmy sleep and visions blest 


From all thine orbs be sent ! 


Smile on Thy servant's bed of rest. 


Join in the strain, ye waters, dwelling ! 




Above the firmament ! 


THE NORTHERN SPRING, 


For His the word which gave you birth, 
And majesty and might : 


When the soft breath of Spring goes forth 


Praise to the Highest from the earth, 


Far o'er the mountains of the North, 


And let the deeps unite ! 


How soon those wastes of dazzling snow 




With life, and bloom, and beauty glow ! 


fire and vapour, hail and snow ! 




Ye servants of His will; 


Then bursts the verdure of the plains, 


stormy winds ! that only blow 


Then break the streams from icy chains ; 


His mandates to fulfil ; 


And the glad reindeer seeks no more 




Amidst deep snows his mossy store. 


Mountains and rocks, to heaven that rise ! 




Fair cedars of the wood ! 


Then the dark pine-wood's boughs are seen 


Creatures of life that wing the skies, 


Fringed tenderly with living green ; 


Or track the plains for food ! 


And roses, in their brightest dyes, 




By Lapland's founts and lakes arise. 


Judges of nations ! kings, whose hand 




Waves the proud sceptre high ! 


Thus, in a moment, from the gloom 


youths and virgins of the land ! 


And the cold fetters of the tomb, 


age and infancy ! 


Thus shall the blest Redeemer's voice 




Call forth his servants to rejoice. 


Praise ye His name, to whom alone 




All homage should be given ; 


For He, whose word is truth, hath said, 


Whose glory from the eternal throne 


His power to life shall wake the dead, 


Spreads wide o'er earth and heaven ! 


[Early in the year 1834, the little volume of Hymns for 


Mrs Lawrence, in the note which accompanied the volume : 


Childhood (which, though written many years before, had 


— " I think you will love my little book, though it contains 


never been published in England) was brought out by Messrs 


but the broken music of a troubled heart— for all the hours it 


Curry of Dublin, who were also the publishers of the National 


will recall to you beam fresh and bright as ever in my memory, 


Lyrics, which appeared in a collected form about the same 


though I have passed through but too many of sad and deep 


time. Of the latter, Mrs Hemans thus wrote to her friend 


excitement since that period." — Memoir, p. 269.] 



534 



LYRICS. 



NATIONAL LYKICS, AND SONGS FOR MUSIC. 

TO 

MRS LAWRENCE 

OF WAVERTREE HALL, HER FRIEND, AND THE SISTER OF HER FRIEND 

COLONEL d'aGUILAR, THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED IN REMEMBRANCE OF 

MANY BRIGHTLY ASSOCIATED HOURS, BY FELICIA HEMANS. 



NATIONAL LYRICS. 



THE THEMES OF SONG. 

" Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love, and hope, 
And melancholy fear subdued by faith." Wordsworth. 

Where shall the minstrel find a theme 1 

— Where'er, for freedom shed, 
Brave blood hath dyed some ancient stream, 

Amidst the mountains, red. 

Where'er a rock, a fount, a grove, 

Bears record to the faith 
Of love — deep, holy, fervent love, 

Victor o'er fear and death. 

Where'er a chieftain's crested brow 
Too soon hath been struck down, 

Or a bright virgin head laid low, 
Wearing its youth's first crown. 

Where'er a spire points up to heaven, 
Through storm and summer air, 

Telling, that all around have striven 
Man's heart, and hope, and prayer. 

Where'er a blessed home hath been, 

That now is home no more : 
A place of ivy, darkly green, 

Where laughter's light is o'er. 

Where'er by some forsaken grave, 
Some nameless greensward heap, 

A bird may sing, a wild-flower wave, 
A star its vigil keep. 

Or where a yearning heart of old, 

A dream of shepherd men, 
With forms of more than earthly mould 

Hath peopled grot or glen. 



There may the bard's high themes be found- 

We die, we pass away ; 
But faith, love, pity — these are bound 

To earth without decay. 

The heart that burns, the cheek that glows, 

The tear from hidden springs, 
The thorn and glory of the rose — ■ 

These are undying things. 

Wave after wave of mighty stream 

To the deep sea hath gone : 
Yet not the less, like youth's bright dream, 

The exhaustless flood rolls on. 



RHINE SONG OF THE GERMAN SOLDIERS 
AFTER VICTORY. 

TO THE AIR OF " AM RHEIN, AM RHEIN." 

SINGLE VOICE. 

It is the Rhine ! our mountain vineyards laving, 
I see the bright flood shine ! (bis.) 

Sing on the march with every banner waving — 
Sing, brothers ! 'tis the Rhine ! (Ms.) 

chorus. 
The Rhine ! the Rhine ! our own imperial river ! 

Be glory on thy track ! 
We left thy shores, to die or to deliver— 

We bear thee freedom back ! 

SINGLE VOICE. 

Hail ! hail ! my childhood knew thy rush of water, 

Even as my mother's song ; 
That sound went past me on the field of slaughter, 

And heart and arm grew strong ! 






NATIONAL LYRICS. 



;35 



CHORUS. 

Eoll proudly on ! — brave blood is with *thee 
sweeping, 

Pour'd out by sons of thine, 
Where sword and spirit forth in joy were leaping, 

Like thee, victorious Rhine ! 

SINGLE VOICE. 

Home ! Home ! Thy glad wave hath a tone of 
greeting, 

Thy path is by my home, 
Even now my children count the hours till meeting : 

ransom'd ones ! I come. 

CHORUS. 

Go tell the seas, that chain shall bind thee never ! 

Sound on by hearth and shrine ! 
Sing through the hills that thou art free for ever — 

Lift up thy voice, Rhine ! 

[" I wish you could have heard Sir Walter Scott describe a 
glorious sight, which had been witnessed by a friend of his ! — 
the crossing of the Rhine, at Ehrenbreitstein, by the German 
army of Liberators on their victorious return from France. 
' At the first gleam of the river,' he said, ' they all burst 
forth into the national chant, Am Rhein I Am Rhein /' They 
were two days passing over ; and the rocks and the castle 
were ringing to the song the whole time — for each band re- 
newed it while crossing ; and even the Cossacks, with the 
clash and the clang, and the roll of their stormy war-music, 
catching the enthusiasm of the scene, swelled forth the chorus, 
' Am Rhein ! Am Rhein ! ' " — Manuscript letter. 

This anecdote, (on which was founded Mrs Hemans's own 
"Rhine Song,") and the look and tone with which it was 
related, made an impression on her memory which nothing 
could efface. The very name of the "Father Rhine," the 
" exulting and abounding river," (how often would she quote 
that magnificent line of Lord Byron's !) had always worked 
upon her like a spell, conjuring up a thousand visions of 
romance and beauty ; and Haydn's inspiring Rheinweinlied, 
with its fine, rich tide of flowing harmony, was one of the 
airs she most delighted in. " You are quite right," she wrote 
to a friend who had echoed her enthusiasm, " it was the de- 
scription of that noble Rhine scene which interested me more 
than any part of Sir Walter's conversation ; and I wished 
more that you could have heard it than all the high legends 
and solemn scenes of which we spoke that day."] 



A SONG OF DELOS. 



[The Island of Delos was considered of such peculiar sanc- 
tity by the ancients, that they did not allow it to be dese- 
crated by the events of birth or death. In the following 
poem, a young priestess of Apollo is supposed to be conveyed 
from its shores during the last hours of a mortal sickness, and 
to bid the scenes of her youth farewell in a sudden flow of 
unpremeditated song.] 



" Terre, soleil, vallons, belle et douce nature, 
Je vous dois une larme aux bords de mon tombeau ; 
L'air est si parfume ! la lumiere est si pure ! 
Aux regards d'un Mourant le soleil est si beau! Lamartine. 

A song was heard of old — a low, sweet song, 
On the blue seas by Delos. From that isle, 
The Sun-god's own domain, a gentle girl — 
Gentle, yet all inspired of soul, of mien, 
Lit with a life too perilously bright — 
Was borne away to die. How beautiful 
Seems this world to the dying ! — but for her, 
The child of beauty and of poesy, 
And of soft Grecian skies — oh ! who may dream 
Of all that from her changeful eye ilash'd forth, 
Or glanced more quiveringly through starry tears, 
As on her land's rich vision, fane o'er fane 
Colour'd with loving light, she gazed her last, 
Her young life's last, that hour ! From her pale brow 
And burning cheek she threw the ringlets back, 
And bending forward, as the spirit swa/d 
The reed-like form still to the shore beloved, 
Breathed the swan-music of her wild farewell 
O'er dancing waves : — "Oh, linger yet !" she cried, 

" Oh, linger, linger on the oar ! 
Oh, pause upon the deep ! 

That I may gaze yet once, once more, 
Where floats the golden day o'er fane and steep ! 
Never so brightly smiled mine own sweet shore— 
Oh ! linger, linger on the parting oar ! 

" I see the laurels fling back showers 
Of soft light still on many a shrine ; 

I see the path to haunts of flowers 
Through the dim olives lead its gleaming line; 
I hear a sound of flutes — a swell of song — 
Mine is too low to reach that joyous throng ! 

" Oh ! linger, linger on the oar 
Beneath my native sky ! 

Let my life part from that bright shore 
With day's last crimson — gazing let me die ! 
Thou bark, glide slowly ! — slowly should be borne 
The voyager that never shall return. 

" A fatal gift hath been thy dower, 
Lord of the Lyre ! to me ; 

With song and wreath from bower to bower, 
Sisters went bounding like young Oreads free ; 
While I, through long, lone, voiceless hours apart, 
Have lain and listen'd to my beating heart. 

" Now, wasted by the inborn fire, 
I sink to eai-ly rest ; 



536 LYRICS. 


The ray that lit the incense-pyre 


And a power all hearts to sway, 


Leaves unto death its temple in my breast. 


In ever-burning song. 


— sunshine, skies, rich flowers ! too soon I go, 




While round me thus triumphantly ye glow ! 


But now shed fiowers, pour wine, 




To hail the conquerors home ! 


" Bright isle ! might but thine echoes keep 


Bring wreaths for every shrine — 


A tone of my farewell, 


Io ! they come, they come ! 


One tender accent, low and deep, [dwell ! 




Shrined midst thy founts and haunted rocks to 





Might my last breath send music to thy shore ! 




— Oh, linger, seamen ! linger on the oar ! 


NAPLES. 





A SONG OF THE SYREN. 


ANCIENT GREEK CHANT OF VICTORY. 


" Then gentle winds arose, 




With many a mingled close 


" Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 


Of wild iEolian sound and mountain-odour keen , 


Our virgins dance beneath the shade." Byron. 


Where the clear Baian ocean 




Welters with air-like motion 


Io ! they come, they come ! 


Within, above, around its bowers of starry green." 


Garlands for every shrine ! 


Shelley. 


Strike lyres to greet them home ; 


Still is the Syren warbling on thy shore, 


Bring roses, pour ye wine ! 


Bright city of the waves ! Her magic song 




Still, with a dreamy sense of ecstasy, 


Swell, swell the Dorian flute 


Fills thy soft summer air : — and while my glance 


Through the blue triumphant sky ! 


Dwells on thy pictured loveliness, that lay 


Let the cittern's tone salute 


Floats thus o'er fancy's ear ; and thus to thee, 


The sons of victory. 


Daughter of sunshine ! doth the Syren sing. 


With the offering of bright blood 


" Thine is the glad wave's flashing play, 


They have ransom'd hearth and tomb, 


Thine is the laugh of the golden day — 


Vineyard, and field, and flood ; — 


The golden day, and the glorious night, 


Io ! they come, they come ! 


And the vine with its clusters all bathed in light ! 




— Forget, forget, that thou art not free ! 


Sing it where olives wave, 


Queen of the Summer sea. 


And by the glittering sea, 




And o'er each hero's grave — 


" Favour'd and crown'd of the earth and sky ! 


Sing, sing, the land is free ! 


Thine are all voices of melody, 




Wandering in moonlight through fane and tower, 


Mark ye the flashing oars, 


Floating o'er fountain and myrtle bower ; 


And the spears that light the deep '\ 


Hark ! how they melt o'er thy glittering sea — • 


How the festal sunshine pours 


Forget that thou art not free ! 


Where the lords of battle sweep ! 






" Let the wine flow in thy marble halls ! 


Each hath brought back his shield ; — 


Let the lute answer thy fountain-falls ! 


Maid, greet thy lover home ! 


And deck thy feasts with the myrtle bough, 


Mother, from that proud field, 


And cover with roses thy glowing brow ! 


Io ! thy son is come ! 


Queen of the day and the summer sea, 




Forget that thou art not free !" 


Who murmur' d of the dead ? 




Hush, boding voice ! We know 


So doth the Syren sing, while sparkling waves 


That many a shining head 


Dance to her chant. But sternly, mournfully, 


Lies in its glory low. 


city of the deep ! from Sybil grots 




And Roman tombs, the echoes of thy shore 


Breathe not those names to-day ! 


Take up the cadence of her strain alone, 


They shall have their praise ere long, 


Murmuring — Thou art not free!" 



NATIONAL LYRICS. 537 


THE FALL OP D'ASSAS. 


THE BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE 


A BALLAD OF FRANCE. 


CONQUEROR, 


[The Chevalier D'Assas, called the French Decius, fell nobly 


AT CAEN IN NORMANDY — 1087. 


whilst reconnoitring a wood, near Closterkamp, by night. 




lie had left his regiment, that of Auvergne, at a short dis- 
tance, and was suddenly surrounded by an ambuscade of the 
enemy, who threatened him with instant death if he made the 


[" At the day appointed for the king's interment, Prince 
Henry, his third son, the Norman prelates, and a multitude 


least sign of their vicinity. With their bayonets at his breast, 
he raised his voice, and calling aloud "A moi, Auvergne! 
ces sont les ennemis!" fell, pierced with mortal blows.] 


of clergy and people, assembled in the church of St Stephen, 
which the Conqueror had founded. The mass had been per- 
formed, the corpse was placed on the bier, and the Bishop of 
Evreux had pronounced the panegyric on the deceased, when 


Alone through gloomy forest-shades 


a voice from the crowd exclaimed, — ' He whom you have 


A soldier went by night ; 


praised was a robber. The very land on which you stand is 


mine. By violence he took it from my father: and, in the 
name of God, I forbid you to bury him in it.' The speaker 


No moonbeam pierced the dusky glades, 


No star shed guiding light. 


was Asceline Fitz- Arthur, who had often, but fruitlessly, 




sought reparation from the justice of William. After some 


Yet on his vigil's midnight round 


debate, the prelates called him to them, paid him sixty 




shillings for the grave, and promised that he should receive 


The youth all cheerly pass'd ; 


the full value of his land. The ceremony was then continued, 


Uncheck'd by aught of boding sound 


and the body of the king deposited in a coffin of stone." — 


That mutter'd in the blast. 


Lingard, vol. ii. p. 98.] 


Where were his thoughts that lonely hour? 


Lowly upon his bier 


— In his far home, perchance ; 


The royal conqueror lay ; 


His father's hall, his mother's bower, 


Baron and chief stood near, 


Midst the gay vines of France : 


Silent in war-array. 


Wandering from battles lost and won, 


Down the long minster's aisle 


To hear and bless again 


Crowds mutely gazing stream'd ; 


The rolling of the wide Garonne, 


Altar and tomb the while 


Or murmur of the Seine. 


Through mists of incense gleam'd. 


Hush ! hark ! — did stealing steps go by - ? 


And, by the torches' blaze, 


Came not faint whispers near? 


The stately priest had said 


No ! the wild wind hath many a sigh, 


High words of power and praise 


Amidst the foliage sere. 


To the glory of the dead. 


Hark, yet again ! — and from his hand, 


They lower'd him, with the sound 


What grasp hath wrench'd the blade? 


Of requiems, to repose ; 


— Oh, single midst a hostile band, 


When from the throngs around 


Young soldier ! thou'rt betray'd ! 


A solemn voice arose : — ■ 


" Silence ! " in under-tones they cry — 


" Forbear ! forbear ! " it cried ; 


" No whisper — not a breath ! 


" In the holiest name, forbear ! 


The sound that warns thy comrades nigh 


He hath conquer'd regions wide, 


Shall sentence thee to death." 


But he shall not slumber there ! 


Still, at the bayonet's point he stood, 


" By the violated hearth 


And strong to meet the blow ; 


Which made way for yon proud shrine ; 


And shouted, midst his rushing blood, 


By the harvests which this earth 


"Arm, arm, Auvergne ! the foe 1" 


Hath borne for me and mine ; 


The stir, the tramp, the bugle-call— 


" By the house e'en here o'erthrown, 


He heard their tumults grow ; 


On my brethren's native spot ; 


And sent his dying voice through all — ■ 


Hence ! with his dark renown, 


"Auvergne, Auvergne! the foe!" 


Cumber our birthplace not ! 



538 LYRICS. 


" Will my sire's unransom'd field, 


Not midst the festal throng, 


O'er which your censers wave, 


In halls of mirth and song ; 


To the buried spoiler yield 


But when thy thoughts are deepest, 


Soft slumbers in the grave ! 


When holy tears thou weepest, 




Know then that love is nigh ! 


"The tree before him fell 




Which we cherish'd many a year ; 


When the night's whisper o'er thy harp-strings 


But its deep root yet shall swell, 


creeping, 


And heave against his bier. 


Or the sea-music on the sounding shore, 




Or breezy anthems through the forest sweeping, 


" The land that I have till'd 


Shall move thy trembling spirit to adore ; 


Hath yet its brooding breast 


When every thought and prayer 


With my home's white ashes fill'd, 


We loved to breathe and share, 


And it shall not give him rest ! 


On thy full heart returning, 




Shall wake its voiceless yearning ; 


" Each pillar's massy bed 


Then feel me near once more ! 


Hath been wet by weeping eyes — 




Away ! bestow your dead 


Near thee, still near thee ! — trust thy soul's deep 


Where no wrong against him cries." 


dreaming ! 




Oh ! love is not an earthly rose to die ! 


Shame glow'd on each dark face 


Even when I soar where fiery stars are beaming, 


Of those proud and steel-girt men, 


Thine image wanders with me through the sky. 


And they bought with gold a place 


The fields of air are free, 


For their leader's dust e'en then. 


Yet lonely, wanting thee ; 




But when thy chains are falling, 


A little earth for him 


When heaven its own is calling, 


Whose banner fiew so far ! 


Know then, thy guide is nigh ! 


And a peasant's tale could dim 




The name, a nation's star ! 





One deep voice thus arose 
From a heart which wrongs had riven : 


OH ! DROOP THOU NOT. 


Oh ! who shall number those 
That were but heard in heaven ] 


They sin who tell us love can die ! 
With life all other passions fly- 




All others are but vanity. 




In heaven ambition cannot dwell, 




Nor avarice in the vaults of hell ; 




Earthly these passions, as of earth — 





They perish where they drew their birth. 




But love is indestructible ! 




Its holy flame for ever burneth — 




From heaven it came, to heaven returneth." Southey. 


SONGS OF A GUARDIAN SPIRIT. 


Oh ! droop thou not, my gentle earthly love ! 




Mine still to be ! 


NEAR THEE, STILL NEAR THEE I 1 


I bore through death, to brighter lands above, 




My thoughts of thee. 


Near thee, still near thee! — o'er thy pathway 


Yes ! the deep memory of our holy tears, 


gliding, 


Our mingled prayer, 


Unseen I pass thee with the wind's low sigh ; 


Our suffering love, through long devoted years, 


Life's veil enfolds thee still, our eyes dividing, 


Went with me there. 


Yet viewless love floats round thee silently ! 






It was not vain, the hallow'd and the tried — 


1 This piece has heen set to music of most impressive heauty 
by John Lodge, Esq., for whose compositions several of the 


It was not vain ! 
Still, though unseen, still hovering at thy side, 


author's songs were written. 


I watch again ! 



SONGS OF SPAIN. 



539 



From our own paths, our love's attesting bowers, 

I am not gone ; 
In the deep calm of midnight's whispering hours, 

Thou art not lone : 

Not lone, whenby the haunted stream thou weepest 

— That stream whose tone 
Murmurs of thoughts, the richest and the deepest, 

We two have known : 

Not lone, when mournfully some strain awaking 

Of days long past, 
From thy soft eyes the sudden tears are breaking, 

Silent and fast : 

Not lone, when upwards in fond visions turning 

Thy dreamy glance, 
Thou seek'st my home, where solemn stars are 

O'er night's expanse. [burning 

My home is near thee, loved one ! and around thee, 

Where'er thou art ; 
Though still mortality's thick cloud hath bound 

Doubt not thy heart ! [thee, 

Hear its low voice, nor deem thyself forsaken : 

Let faith be given 
To the still tones which oft our being waken — 

They are of heaven. 



SONGS OF SPAIN. 

[Written for a set of airs, entitled Peninsular Melodies, 
selected by Colonel Hodges, and published by Messrs Gould- 
ing and D'Almaine, who have permitted the reappearance of 
the words in this volume.] 

ANCIENT BATTLE-SONG, 

Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again ! 
Let the high word Castile! go resounding through 

Spain ! 
And thou, free Asturias ! encamp'd on the height, 
Pour down thy dark sons to the vintage of fight ! 
Wake, wake! the old soil where thy children repose 
Sounds hollow and deep to the trampling of foes ! 

The voices are mighty that swell from the past, 
With Arragon's cry on the shrill mountain-blast ; 



The ancient sierras give strength to our tread, 
Their pines murmur song where bright blood hath 

been shed. 
— Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again, 
And shout ye " Castile ! to the rescue for Spain ! " 



THE ZEGBI MAID. 

[The Zegris were one of the most illustrious Moorish tribes. 
Their exploits and feuds with their celebrated rivals, the Aben- 
cerrages, form the subject of many ancient Spanish romances.] 



The summer leaves were s 

Around the Zegri maid, 
To her low, sad song replying 

As it fill'd the olive shade. 
" Alas ! for her that loveth 

Her land's, her kindred's foe ! 
Where a Christian Spaniard roveth, 

Should a Zegri's spirit go ] 

" From thy glance, my gentle mother ! 

I sink, with shame oppress' d, 
And the dark eye of my brother 

Is an arrow to my breast." — 
Where summer leaves were sighing 

Thus sang the Zegri maid, 
While the crimson day was dying 

In the whispery olive shade. 

" And for all this heart's wealth wasted, 

This woe in secret borne, 
This flower of young life blasted, 

Should I win back aught but scorn ? 
By aught but daily dying 

Would my lone truth be repaid ]" — 
Where the olive leaves were sighing, 

Thus sang the Zegri maid. 



THE BIO VEBDE SONG. 

[The Rio Verde, a small river of Spain, is celebrated in the 
old ballad romances of that country for the frequent combats 
on its banks between Moor and Christian. The ballad re- 
ferring to this stream in Percy's Rellques will be remembered 
by many readers. 

" Gentle river, gentle river ! 

Lo ! thy streams are stain'd with gore."] 

Flow, Bio Verde ! 

In melody flow ; 
Win her that weepeth 

To slumber from woe ; 



540 LYRICS. 


Bid thy wave's music 


From his watch-fire midst the mountains, 


Roll through her dreams- 


Lo ! to thee the shepherd cries ! 


Grief ever loveth 




The kind voice of streams. 


Yet, when thus full hearts find voices, 




If o'erburden'd souls there be, 


Bear her lone spirit 


Dark and silent in their anguish, 


Afar on the sound 


Aid those captives ! set them free ! 


Back to her childhood, 




Her life's fairy ground ; 


Touch them, every fount unsealing 


Pass like the whisper 


Where the frozen tears lie deep ; 


Of love that is gone — 


Thou, the Mother of all sorrows, 


Flow, Rio Verde ! 


Aid ! oh, aid to pray and weep ! 


Softly flow on ! 




Dark glassy water 




So crimson'd of yore ! 


BIRD THAT ART SINGING ON EBRO'S 


Love, death, and sorrow 


SIDE ! 


Know thy green shore. 




Thou shouldst have echoes 


Bird that art singing on Ebro's side ! 


For grief's deepest tone— 


Where myrtle shadows make dim the tide, 


Flow, Rio Verde ! 


Doth sorrow dwell midst the leaves with thee ] 


Softly flow on ! 


Doth song avail thy full heart to free 1 




— Bird of the midnight's purple sky ! 





Teach me the spell of thy melody. 


SEEK BY THE SILVERY DARRO. 


Bird ! is it blighted affection's pain 

Whence the sad sweetness flows through thy strain 1 


Seek by the silvery Darro, 

Where jasmine flowers have blown : 
There hath she left no footsteps 1 

— Weep, weep ! the maid is gone ! 


And is the wound of that arrow still'd 
When thy lone music the leaves hath fill'd ? 
— Bird of the midnight's purple sky ! 
Teach me the spell of thy melody. 


Seek where Our Lady's image 





Smiles o'er the pine-hung steep : 




Hear ye not there her vespers 1 
— Weep for the parted, weep ! 


MOORISH GATHERING-SONG. 




ZORZICO. 1 


Seek in the porch where vine-leaves 
O'ershade her father's head : 

Are his gray hairs left lonely 1 
• — Weep ! her bright soul is fled. 


Chains on the cities ! gloom in the air ! 
Come to the hills ! fresh breezes are there. 
Silence and fear in the rich orange bowers ! 
Come to the rocks where freedom hath towers. 





Come from the Darro ! — changed is its tone ; 




Come where the streams no bondage have known ; 


SPANISH EVENING HYMN. 


Wildly and proudly foaming they leap, 




Singing of freedom from steep to steep. 


Ave ! now let prayer and music 




Meet in love on earth and sea ! 


Come from Alhambra ! — garden and grove 


Now, sweet Mother ! may the weary 


Now may not shelter beauty or love. 


Turn from this cold world to thee ! 


Blood on the waters ! death midst the flowers ! 




— Only the spear and the rock are ours. 


From the wide and restless waters 
Hear the sailor's hymn arise 1 


1 The Zorzico is an extremely wild and singularly antique 
Moorish melody. 

i 



SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS. 541 




'Tis a day of the spear and the banner, 


THE SONG OF MINA'S SOLDIERS. 


Of armings and hurried farewells ; 


We heard thy name, Mina ! 


Rise, rise on your mountains, ye Spaniards ! 
Or start from your old battle-dells. 


Far through our hills it rang ; 




A sound more strong than tempests, 
More keen than armour's clang. 


There are streams of unconquer'd Asturias 
That have roll'd with your father's free blood : 


The peasant left his vintage, 


Oh ! leave on the graves of the mighty 

Proud marks where their children have stood ! 


The shepherd grasp'd the spear — 




"We heard thy name, Mina ! 




— The mountain-bands are here. 





As eagles to the dayspring, 


SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS. 


As torrents to the sea, 




From every dark sierra 




So rush'd our hearts to thee. 


AND I TOO IN ARCADIA. 




[A celebrated picture of Poussin represents a band of shep- 


Thy spirit is our banner, 


herd-youths and maidens suddenly checked in their wander- 


Thine eye our beacon-sign, 


ings, and affected with various emotions, by the sight of a 


Thy name our trumpet, Mina ! 


tomb which bears this inscription — " Etin Arcadia ego."] 


— The mountain-bands are thine. 


They have wander'd in their glee 




With the butterfly and bee ; 





They have climb'd o'er heathery swells, 




They have wound through forest dells ; 


MOTHER ! OH, SING ME TO REST. 


Mountain-moss hath felt their tread, 




Woodland streams their way have led ; 


A CANCION. 


Flowers, in deepest shadowy nooks, 




Nurslings of the loneliest brooks, 


Mother ! oh, sing me to rest 


Unto them have yielded up 


As in my bright days departed : 


Fragrant bell and starry cup : 


Sing to thy child, the sick-hearted, 


Chaplets are on every brow — 


Songs for a spirit oppress'd. 


What hath staid the wanderers noAv ? 




Lo ! a gray and rustic tomb, 


Lay this tired head on thy breast-! 


Bower'd amidst the rich wood-gloom ; 


Flowers from the night-dew are closing, 


Whence these words their stricken spirits melt, 


Pilgrims and mourners reposing : 


— " I too, Shepherds ! in Arcadia dwelt." 


Mother ! oh, sing me to rest ! 






There is many a summer sound 


Take back thy bird to its nest ! 


That pale sepulchre around ; 


Weary is young life when blighted, 


Through the shade young birds are glancing, 


Heavy this love unrequited ; 


Insect- wings in sun-streaks dancing ; 


— Mother, oh ! sing me to rest ! 


Glimpses of blue festal skies 




Pouring in when soft winds rise ; 




Violets o'er the turf below 




Shedding out their warmest glow ; 




Yet a spirit not its own 


THERE ARE SOUNDS IN THE DARK 


O'er the greenwood now is thrown ! 


RONCESVALLES. 


Something of an under-note 




Through its music seems to float, 


There are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles, 


Something of a stillness gray 


There are echoes on Biscay's wild shore ; 


Creeps across the laughing day : 


There are mtirmurs — but not of the torrent, 


Something dimly from those old words felt, 


Nor the wind, nor the pine-forest's roar. 


■ — " I too, Shepherds ! in Arcadia dwelt." 



542 LYRICS. 


Was some gentle kindred maid 




In that grave with dirges laid 1 


YE ARE NOT MISS'D, FAIR FLOWERS ! 


Some fair creature, with the tone 




Of whose voice a joy is gone, 


Ye are not miss'd, fair flowers, that late were 


Leaving melody and mirth 


spreading 


Poorer on this alter'd earth 1 


The summer's glow by fount and breezy grot ; 


Is it thus 1 that so they stand, 


There falls the dew, its fairy favours shedding — 


Dropping flowers from every hand- 


The leaves dance on, the young birds miss y ounot. 


Flowers, and lyres, and gather'd store 




Of red wild-fruit prized no more 1 


Still plays the sparkle o'er the rippling water, 


— No ! from that bright band of morn 


lily ! whence thy cup of pearl is gone ; 


Not one link hath yet been torn : 


The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest 


'Tis the shadow of the tomb 


daughter, 


Falling o'er the summer-bloom — 


There is no sorrow in the wind's low tone. 


O'er the flush of love and life 




Passing with a sudden strife ; 


And thou, meek hyacinth ! afar is roving 


'Tis the low prophetic breath 


The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath kiss'd. 


Murmuring from that house of death, 


Cradled ye were, fair flowers! 'midst all things 


Whose faint whisper thus their hearts can melt, 


loving, 


— " I too, Shepherds ! in Arcadia dwelt." 


A joy to all — yet, yet, ye are not miss'd ! 




Ye, that were born to lend the sunbeam gladness, 





And the winds fragrance, wandering where they 
list, 
Oh ! it were breathing words too deep in sadness, 






To say earth's human flowers not more are miss'd. 


THE WANDERING WIND. 




The Wind, the wandering Wind 




Of the golden summer eves — 


THE WILLOW SONG. 


Whence is the thrilling magic 




Of its tones among the leaves ] 


Willow ! in thy breezy moan, 


Oh ! is it from the waters, 


I can hear a deeper tone ; 


Or from the long tall grass? 


Through thy leaves come whispering low 


Or is it from the hollow rocks 


Faint, sweet sounds of long ago. 


Through which its breathings pass? 


Willow, sighing willow ! 


Or is it from the voices 


Many a mournful tale of old 


Of all in one combined, 


Heart-sick love to thee hath told, 


That it wins the tone of mastery ? 


Gathering from thy golden bough 


The Wind, the wandering Wind ! 


Leaves to cool his burning brow. 


No, no ! the strange, sweet accents 


Willow! sighing willow! 


That with it come and go, 




They are not from the osiers, 


Many a swan-like song to thee 


Nor the fir-trees whispering low; 


Hath been sung, thou gentle tree ! 




Many a lute its last lament 


They are not of the waters, 


Down thy moonlight stream hath sent. 


Nor of the cavern'd hill : 


Willow! sighing willow! 


'Tis the human love within us 




That gives them power to thrill. 


Therefore, wave and murmur on ! 


They touch the links of memory 


Sigh for sweet affections gone, 


Around our spirits twined, 


And for tuneful voices fled, 


And we start, and weep, and tremble, 


And for love, whose heart hath bled, 


To the Wind, the wandering Wind ! 


Ever, willow ! willow ! 



SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS. 543 




The troubled haunts of care and strife 


LEAVE ME NOT YET. 


Were not for thee ! 


Leave me not yet ! through rosy skies from far, 


The woodland is thy country, 


But now the song-birds to their nests return ; 


Thou art all its own again ; 


The quivering image of the first pale star 


The wild birds are thy kindred race, 


On the dim lake scarce yet begins to burn : 


That fear no chain. 


Leave me not yet ! 






Flow on, rejoice, make music 


Not yet ! oh, hark ! low tones from hidden streams, 


Unto the glistening leaves ! 


Piercing the shivery leaves, even now arise ; 


Thou, the beloved of balmy winds 


Their voices mingle not with daylight dreams, 


And golden eaves ! 


They are of vesper's hymns and harmonies : 




Leave me not yet ! 


Once more the holy starlight 




Sleeps calm upon thy breast, 


My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear love ! 


Whose brightness bears no token more 


By day shut up in their own still recess ; 


Of man's unrest. 


They wait for dews on earth, for stars above, 




Then to breathe out their soul of tenderness : 


Flow, and let freeborn music 


Leave me not yet ! 


Flow with thy wavy line, 




While the stock-dove's lingering, loving voice 





Comes blent with thine. 


THE ORANGE BOUGH. 


And the green reeds quivering o'er thee, 




Strings of the forest-lyre, 


Oh ! bring me one sweet orange-bough, 


All fill'd with answering spirit-sounds, 


To fan my cheek, to cool my brow ; 


In joy respire. 


One bough, with pearly blossoms drest, 




And bind it, mother ! on my breast ! 


Yet, midst thy song's glad changes, 




Oh ! keep one pitying tone 


Go, seek the grove along the shore, 


For gentle hearts, that bear to thee 


Whose odours I must breathe no more ; 


Their sadness lone. 


The grove where every scented tree 




Thrills to the deep voice of the sea. 


One sound, of all the deepest, 




To bring, like healing dew, 


Oh ! Love's fond sighs, and fervent prayer, 


A sense that nature ne'er forsakes 


And wild farewell, are lingering there : 


The meek and true. 


Each leafs light whisper hath a tone 




My faint heart, even in death, would own. 


Then, then, rejoice, make music, 




Thou stream, thou glad and free ! 


Then bear me thence one bough, to shed 


The shadows of all glorious flowers 


Life's parting sweetness round my head ; 


Be set in thee ! 


And bind it, mother ! on my breast 




When I am laid in lonely rest. 





THE STREAM SET FREE. 


THE SUMMER'S CALL. 1 


Flow on, rejoice, make music, 


Come away ! The sunny hours 


Bright living stream set free ! 


Woo thee far to founts and bowers ! 


1 " The Summer's Call."— This faculty for realising images 


gracefully illustrated by Washington Irving in the " Royal 


of the distant and the beautiful, amidst outward circum- 


Poet" of his Sketch-Book .—" Some minds corrode and grow 


stances of apparently the most adverse influence, is thus 


inactive under the loss of personal liberty ; others grow morbid 



544 LYRICS. 


O'er the very waters now, 


Glancing there from sun to shade, 


In their play, 


Bright wings play ; 


Flowers are shedding beauty's glow — 


There the deer its couch hath made — 


Come away ! 


Come away ! 


Where the lily's tender gleam 


Where the smooth leaves of the lime 


Quivers on the glancing stream, 


Glisten in their honey-time, 


Come away ! 


Come away — away ! 1 


All the air is fill'd with sound, 




Soft, and sultry, and profound ; 





Murmurs through the shadowy grass 




Lightly stray ; 


OH! SKYLARK, FOR THY WING. 


Faint winds whisper as they pass — 




Come away ! 




Where the bee's deep music swells 


Oh ! Skylark, for thy wing ! 


From the trembling foxglove bells, 


Thou bird of joy and light, 


Come away ! 


That I might soar and sing 




At heaven's empyreal height ! 


In the skies the sapphire blue 


With the heathery hills beneath me, 


Now hath won its richest hue ; 


Whence the streams in glory spring, 


In the woods the breath of song 


And the pearly clouds to wreathe me, 


Night and day 


Skylark ! on thy wing ! 


Floats with leafy scents along — 




Come away ! 


Free, free, from earth-born fear, 


Where the boughs with dewy gloom 


I would range the blessed skies, 


Darken each thick bed of bloom, 


Through the blue divinely clear, 


Come away ! 


Where the low mists cannot rise ! 




And a thousand joyous measures 


In the deep heart of the rose 


From my chainless heart should spring, 


Now the crimson love-hue glows ; 


Like the bright rain's vernal treasures, 


Now the glow-worm's lamp by night 


As I wander'd on thy wing. 


Sheds a ray, 




Dreamy, starry, greenly bright — 


But oh ! the silver cords 


Come away ! 


That around the heart are spun, 


Where the fairy cup-moss lies, 


From gentle tones and words, 


With the wild-wood strawberries, 


And kind eyes that make our sun ! 


Come away ! 


To some low, sweet nest returning, 




How soon my love would bring 


Now each tree by summer crown' d, 


There, there the dews of morning, 


Sheds its own rich twilight round ; 


Skylark ! on thy wing ! 


and irritable ; but it is the nature of the poet to become 


irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. Such was the world of 


tender and imaginative in the loneliness of confinement. He 


pomp and pageant that lived round Tasso in his dismal cell 


banquets upon the honey of his own thoughts, and, like the 


at Ferrara, when he conceived the splendid scenes of his 


captive bird, pours forth his soul in melody. 


Jerusalem ; and we may consider The King's Quair, com- 


' Have you not seen the nightingale, 
A pilgrim cooped into a cage, 


posed by James of Scotland during his captivity at Windsor, 


as another of those beautiful breakings forth of the soul from 


How doth she chaut her wonted tale 


the restraint and gloom of the prison-house." 


In that her lonely hermitage ? 


*" In my literary pursuits," wrote Mrs Hemans at this 


Even there her charming melody doth prove, 


time to a friend, " I fear I shall be obliged to look out for an 


That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.' " 

EOGKR L'ESTRANGB. 


amanuensis. I sometimes retain a piece of poetry several 




weeks in my memory, from actual dread of writing it 


Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that it 


down. ... I was so glad you liked my little summer 


is irrepressible, unconfinable ; and that, when the real world 


breathing strain , (' The Summer's Call. ') I assure you it quite 


is shut out, it can create a world for itself, and with a necro- 


consoled me for the want of natural objects of beauty around, 


mantic power can conjure up glorious shapes and forms, and 


to heap up their remembered images in one wild strain." 



SONGS OF CAPTIVITY. 545 




Would I were with thee in thy rest, 


SONGS OF CAPTIVITY. 


Young sleeper of the sea ! 




In a shelter'd home of England 
Our sister dwells alone, 


[These songs (with the exception of the fifth) have all 
been set to music by the author's sister, and are in the 


possession of Mr Willis, by whose permission they are here 


With quick heart listening for the sound 


published.] 


Of footsteps that are gone. 




She little dreams, my brother ! 


INTRODUCTION. 


Of the wild fate we have found ; 




I, midst the Afric sands a slave, 


One hour for distant homes to weep 


Thou, by the dark seas bound. 


Midst Afric's burnings sand, 




One silent sunset hour was given 





To the slaves of many lands. 






THE ALPINE HORN. 


They sat beneath a lonely palm, 




In the gardens of their lord ; ■ 


The Alpine horn ! the Alpine horn ! 


And, mingling with the fountain's tune, 


Oh ! through my native sky, 


Their songs of exile pour'd. 


Might I but hear its deep notes borne 




Once more — but once — and die ! 


And strangely, sadly did those lays 




Of Alp and ocean sound, 


Yet, no ! Midst breezy hills thy breath, 


With Afric's wild, red skies above, 


So full of hope and morn, 


And solemn wastes around. 


Would win me from the bed of death — 




joyous Alpine horn ! 


Broken with tears were oft their tones, 




And most when most they tried 


But here the echo of that blast, 


To breathe of hope and liberty, 


To many a battle known, 


From hearts that inly died. 


Seems mournfully to wander past, 




A wild, shrill, wailing tone ! 


So met the sons of many lands, 




Parted by mount and main ; 


Haunt me no more ! for slavery's air 


So did they sing in brotherhood, 


Thy proud notes were not born ; 


Made kindred by the chain. 


The dream but deepens my despair — 


_ 


Be hush'd, thou Alpine horn ! 


THE BROTHER'S DIRGE. 






YE VOICES! 


In the proud old fanes of England 




My warrior-fathers He, 


ye voices round my own hearth singing, 


Banners hang drooping o'er their dust 


As the winds of May to memory sweet ! 


With gorgeous blazonry. 


Might I yet return, a worn heart bringing, 


But thou, but thou, my brother ! 


Would those vernal tones the wanderer greet, 


O'er thee dark billows sweep — 


Once again 1 


The best and bravest heart of all 




Is shrouded by the deep. 


Never, never ! Spring hath smiled and parted 




Oft since then your fond farewell was said ; 


In the old high wars of England 


O'er the green turf of the gentle-hearted 


My noble fathers bled ; 


Summer's hand the rose-leaves may have shed, 


For her lion-kings of lance and spear, 


Oft again ! 


They went down to the dead. 




But thou, but thou, my brother ! 


Or if still around my heart ye linger, 


Thy life-drops flow'd for me — 


Yet, sweet voices! there must change have come : 


M 


M 






546 



LYRICS. 



Fears have quell'd the free soul of the singer, 
Vernal tones shall greet the wanderer home 
Ne'er again ! 



I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE. 

I dream of all things free ! 

Of a gallant, gallant bark 
That sweeps through storm and sea, 

Like an arrow to its mark ! 
Of a stag that o'er the hills 

Goes bounding in his glee ; 
Of a thousand flashing rills — 

Of all things glad and free. 

I dream of some proud bird, 

A bright-eyed mountain-king ! 
In my visions I have heard 

The rushing of his wing. 
I follow some wild river, 

On whose breast no sail may be ; 
Dark woods around it shiver — 

I dream of all things free ! 

Of a happy forest child, 

With the fawns and flowers at play ; 
Of an Indian midst the wild, 

With the stars to guide his way ; 
Of a chief his warriors leading, 

Of an archer's greenwood tree — 
My heart in chains is bleeding, 

And I dream of all things free ! 



FAR O'ER THE SEA. 

Where are the vintage songs 

Wandering in glee 1 
Where dance the peasant bands 

Joyous and free 1 
Under a kind blue sky, 
Where doth my birthplace lie 1 

— Far o'er the sea. 

Where floats the myrtle-scent 

O'er vale and lea, 
When evening calls the dove 

Homewards to flee ! 
Where doth the orange gleam 
Soft on my native stream 1 

— Far o'er the sea ! 



Where are sweet eyes of love 

Watching for me 1 
Where o'er the cabin roof 

Waves the green tree 1 
Where speaks the vesper-chime 
Still of a holy time 1 

— Far o'er the sea. 

Dance on, ye vintage bands ! 

Fearless and free; 
Still fresh and greenly wave, 

My father's tree ! 
Still smile, ye kind, blue skies ! 
Though your son pines and dies 

Far o'er the sea ! 



THE INVOCATION. 

Oh ! art thou still on earth, my love ] 

My only love ! 
Or smiling in a brighter home, 

Far, far above 1 

Oh ! is thy sweet voice fled, my love 
Thy light step gone ? 

And art thou not, in earth or heaven, 
Still, still my own ] 

I see thee with thy gleaming hair, 
In midnight dreams ! 

But cold, and clear, and spirit-like, 
Thy soft eye seems. 

Peace in thy saddest hour, my love ! 

Dwelt on thy brow ; 
But something mournfully divine 

There shineth now ! 

And silent ever is thy lip, 

And pale thy cheek ; — 

Oh ! art thou earth's, or art thou heaven's 1 
Speak to me, speak ! 



THE SONG OF HOPE. 

Droop not, my brothers ! I hear a glad strain — 
We shall burst forth like streams from the winte 

night's chain ; 
A flag is unfurl'd, a bright star of the sea, 
A ransom approaches — we yet shall be free ! 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 



547 



Where the pines wave, where the light chamois 

leaps, 
Where the lone eagle hath built on the steeps ; 
Where the snows glisten, the mountain-rills foam, 
Free as the falcon's wing, yet shall we roam. 

Where the hearth shines, where the kind looks 

are met, 
Where the smiles mingle, our place shall be yet ! 
Crossing the desert, o'ersweeping the sea — 
Droop not, my brothers ! we yet shall be free ! 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 

THE CALL TO BATTLE. 

" Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking signs, 
Which ne'er might be repeated." Byron. 

The vesper-bell, from church and tower, 

Had sent its dying sound ; 
And the household, in the hush of eve, 

Were met their porch around. 

A voice rang through the olive-wood, with a sud- 
den trumpet's power — 

" We rise on all our hills ! Come forth ! 'tis thy 
country's gathering-hour : 

There's a gleam of spears by every stream in each 
old battle-dell. 

Come forth, young Juan ! Bid thy home a brief 
and proud farewell !" 

Then the father gave his son the sword 
Which a hundred fights had seen — 
" Away ! and bear it back, my boy ! 
All that it still hath been ! 

" Haste, haste ! The hunters of the foe are up : and 
who shall stand [land ] 

The lion-like awakening of the roused indignant 

Our chase shall sound through each defile where 
swept the clarion's blast, 

With the flying footsteps of the Moor, in stormy 
ages past." 

Then the mother kiss'd her son with tears 
That o'er his dark locks fell : 
" I bless, I bless thee o'er and o'er, 
Yet I stay thee not — Farewell !" 



" One moment ! but one moment give to parting 

thought or word ! 
It is no time for woman's tears when manhood's 

heart is stirr'd. 
Bear but the memory of my love about thee in 

the fight, 
To breathe upon th' avenging sword a spell of 

keener might. 

And a maiden's fond adieu was heard, 
Though deep, yet brief and low : 
" In the vigil, in the conflict, love ! 
My prayer shall with thee go ! " 

" Come forth ! come as the torrent comes when 

the winter's chain is burst ! 
So rushes on the land's revenge, in night and 

silence nursed. 
The night is pass'd, the silence o'er— on all our 

hills we rise : 
We wait thee, youth ! sleep, dream no more ! the 

voice of battle cries." 

There were sad hearts in a darken'd home, 
When the brave had left their bower ; 

But the strength of prayer and sacrifice 
Was with them in that hour. 



MIGNON'S SONG. 

TRANSLATED FROM GOETHE. 

[Mignon, a young and enthusiastic girl, (the character in 
one of Goethe's romances, from which Sir Walter Scott's 
Fenella is partially imitated,) has been stolen away, in early 
childhood, from Italy. Her vague recollections of that land, 
and of her early home, with its graceful sculptures and pic- 
tured saloons, are perpetually haunting her, and at times 
break forth into the following song. The original has been 
set to exquisite music, by Zelter, the friend of Goethe.] 

" Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhn ? " 

Know'st thou the land where bloom the citron 

bowers, 
Where the gold-orange lights the dusky grove ? 
High waves the laurel there, the myrtle flowers, 
And through a still blue . heaven the sweet winds 
Know'st thou it well 1 [rove. 

There, there, with thee, 
friend ! loved one ! fain my steps would flee. 

Know'st thou the dwelling] There the pillars rise, 
Soft shines the hall, the painted chambers glow ; 



548 MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 


And forms of marble seem with pitying eyes 


Sweet sister ! take the golden cross that I have 


To say — "Poor child ! what thus hath wrought thee 


worn so long, 


Know'st thou it well ? [woe ?" 


And bathed with many a burning tear for secret 


There, there with thee, 


woe and wrong. 


my protector ! homewards might I flee ! 


It could not still my beating heart ! but may it 




be a sign 


Know'st thou the mountain 1 High its bridge is 


Of peace and hope, my gentle one ! when meekly 


hung, [way ; 


press'd to thine." 


Where the mule seeks through mist and cloud his 




There lurk the dragon-race, deep caves among, 


" Take back, take back the cross of gold, our 


O'er beetling rocks there foams the torrent-spray. 


mother's gift to thee — 


Know'st thou it well 1 


It would but of this parting hour a bitter token be; 


With thee, with thee, 


With funeral splendour to mine eye, it would but 


There lies my path, father ! let us flee ! 


sadly shine, 




And tell of early treasures lost, of j oy no longer mine. 


, 


sister ! if thy heart be thus with buried grief 




oppress'd, 


THE SISTERS. 1 


Where wouldst thou pour it forth so well as on 




my faithful breast?" 


A BALLAD. 






" Urge me no more ! A blight hath fallen upon 


" I go, sweet sister ! yet, my heart would linger 


my summer years ! 


with thee fain, 


I should but darken thy young life with fruitless 


And unto every parting gift some deep remem- 


pangs and fears. 


brance chain : 


But take at least the lute I loved, and guard it 


Take, then, the braid of Eastern pearls which once 


for my sake, 


I loved to wear, 


And sometimes from its silvery strings one tone 


And with it bind for festal scenes the dark waves 


of memory wake ! 


of thy hair ! 


Sing to those chords by starlight's gleam our own 


Its pale, pure brightness will beseem those raven 


sweet vesper-hymn, 


tresses well, 


And think that I too chant it then, far in my 


And I shall need such pomp no more in my lone 


cloister dim." 


convent-cell." 






" Yes ! I will take the silvery lute — and I will sing 


" Oh, speak not thus, my Leonor ! why part from 


to thee 


kindred love? 


A song we heard in childhood's days, even from 


Through festive scenes, when thou art gone, my 


our father's knee. 


steps no more shall move ! 


sister ! sister ! are these notes amid forgotten 


How could I bear a lonely heart amid a reckless 


things ? 


throng ? 


Do they not linger as in love, on the familiar 


I should but miss earth's dearest voice in every 


strings ? 


tone of song. 


Seems not our sainted mother's voice to murmur ; 


Keep, keep the braid of Eastern pearls, or let me 


in the strain ? 


proudly twine 


Kind sister ! gentlest Leonor ! say shall it plead in 


Its wreath once more around that brow, that 


vain?" 


queenly brow of thine." 






SONG. 


" Oh, wouldst thou strive a wounded bird from 


" Leave us not, leave us not ! 


shelter to detain ? 


Say not adieu ! 


Or wouldst thou call a spirit freed to weary life 


Have we not been to thee 


again ? 


Tender and true ? 


1 This ballad was composed for a kind of dramatic recitative, 




relieved by music. It was thus performed by two graceful 


" Take not thy sunny smile 


and highly accomplished sisters. 


Far from our hearth ! 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 



549 



With that sweet light will fade 
Summer and mirth. 

" Leave us not, leave us not ! 

Can thy heart roam ] 
Wilt thou not pine to hear 

Voices from home 1 

" Too sad our love would be 

If thou wert gone ! 
Turn to us, leave us not ! 

Thou art our own !" 

"0 sister ! hush that thrilling lute ! — oh, cease that 

haunting lay ! 
Too deeply pierce those wild, sweet notes — yet, 

yet I cannot stay : [call 

For weary, weary is my heart ! I hear a whisper'd 
In every breeze that stirs the leaf and bids the 

blossom fall. 
I cannot breathe in freedom here, my spirit pines 

to dwell 
Where the world's voice can reach no more ! Oh, 

calm thee ! — Fare thee well ! " 

[" Mrs Hemans played very pleasingly, and was passion- 
ately fond of music. She has described in — perhaps the finest 
of her lyrics — the c Requiem of Mozart ' the manner in 
which she herself felt its thrilling influences. 

' ' It was after having listened with great delight one evening 
to some sweet and loved voices (that are now but very seldom 
heard within these walls) singing those words of hers, com- 
posed from Sir Walter Scott's dictation, for one of the old 
Khinesongs, that she brought with her, on the next, her lines on 
' Triumphant Music ;' and triumphant they really were, in 
the splendour of their effect, as she repeated them. She wrote, 
for these same voices, the little drama, or rather scena, ' The 
Sisters,' which formed, as it was represented 1 with extraordi- 
nary research and elegance, and with the advantage of Mr 
Lodge's music, one of the most perfect private exhibitions of 
the kind that can be imagined. One could not help reverting 
to the times of Ludlow Castle, and the Bridgewater family, 
when the youthful performers in Milton's exquisite masque 
were as pure, and as noble, and as beautiful, as the ideal 
personages they represented. "—Recollections of Mrs Hemans, 
by Mrs Lawrence of Wavertree Hall, p. 339-340.] 



THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO. 

[Suggested by a beautiful sketch, the design of the younger 
Westmacott. It represents Sappho sitting on a rock above 
the sea, with her lyre cast at her feet. There is a desolate 
grace about the whole figure, which seems penetrated with 
the feeling of utter abandonment.] 

Sound on, thou dark, unslumbering sea ! 
My dirge is in thy moan ; 
1 At a beautiful residence in Needwood Forest. 



My spirit finds response in thee 
To its own ceaseless cry — " Alone, alone ! " 

Yet send me back one other word, 

Ye tones that never cease ! 
Oh ! let your secret caves be stirr'd, 
And say. dark waters ! will ye give me peace ? 

Away ! my weary soul hath sought 

In vain one echoing sigh, 
One answer to consuming thought 
In human hearts — and will the wave reply 1 

Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea ! 

Sound in thy scorn and pride ! 
I ask not, alien world ! from thee 
What my own kindred earth hath still denied. 

And yet I loved that earth so well, 

With all its lovely things ! 
Was it for this the death-wind fell 
On my rich lyre, and quench' d its living strings'? 

Let them lie silent at my feet ! 
Since, broken even as they, 
The heart whose music made them sweet 
Hath pour'd on desert sands its wealth away. 

Yet glory's light hath touch'd my name, 

The laurel-wreath is mine — 
With a lone heart, a weary frame — 
restless deep ! I come to make them thine ! 

Give to that crown, that burning crown, 

Place in thy darkest hold ! 
Bury my anguish, my renown, 
With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold. 

Thou sea-bird on the billow's crest ! 

Thou hast thy love, thy home ; 
They wait thee in the quiet nest, 
And I, th' unsought, unwatch'd-for — I too come ! 

I, with this winged nature fraught, 

These visions wildly free, 
This boundless love, this fiery thought — 
Alone I come — oh ! give me peace, dark sea ! 



DIRGE. 

Where shall we make her grave 1 
Oh ! where the wild-flowers wave 



550 MISCELLANEOUS LYEICS. 


In the free air ! 


Rose ! too much array'd 


Where shower and singing-bird 


For triumphal hours, 


Midst the young leaves are heard — ■ 


Look'st thou through the shade 


There — lay her there ! 


Of these mortal bowers, [flowers ! 




Not to disturb my soul, thou crown'd one of all 


Harsh was the world to her — 




Now may sleep minister 


As an eagle soaring 


Balm for each ill : 


Through a sunny sky, 


Low on sweet nature's breast 


As a clarion pouring 


Let the meek heart find rest, 


Notes of victory, [high. 


Deep, deep and still ! 


So dost thou kindle thoughts, for earthly life too 


Murmur, glad waters ! by ; 


Thoughts of rapture, flushing 


Faint gales ! with happy sigh, 


Youthful poet's check ; 


Come wandering o'er 


Thoughts of glory, rushing 


That green and mossy bed, 


Forth in song to break, 


Where, on a gentle head, 


But finding the spring-tide of rapid song too weak. 


Storms beat no more ! 






Yet, festal rose ! 


What though for her in vain 


I have seen thee lying 


Falls now the bright spring-rain, 


In thy bright repose 


Plays the soft wind 1 


Pillow'd with the dying, [flying. 


Yet still, from where she lies, 


TJiy crimson by the lip whence life's quick blood was 


Should blessed breathings rise, 




Gracious and kind. 


Summer, hope, and love 




O'er that bed of pain, 


Therefore let song and dew 


Met in thee, yet wove 


Thence in the heart renew 


Too, too frail a chain 


Life's vernal glow ! 


In its embracing links the lovely to detain. 


And o'er that holy earth 




Scents of the violet's birth 


Smilest thou, gorgeous flower 1 


Still come and go ! 


Oh ! within the spells 




Of thy beauty's power, 


Oh ! then, where wild flowers wave 


Something dimly dwells, 


Make ye her mossy grave, 


At variance with a world of sorrows and farewells. 


In the free air ! 




Where shower and singing-bird 


All the soul forth flowing 


Midst the young leaves are heard — 


In that rich perfume, 


There — lay her there ! 


All the proud life glowing 




In that radiant bloom — 





Have they no place but h ere, beneath th' o'ershadow- 




ing tomb 1 


A SONG OF THE EOSE. 






Crown'st thou but the daughters 


" Cosi fior diverrai che non soggiace 
All 'acqua, al gelo, al vento ed alio scherno 


Of our tearful race 1 


D' una stagion volubile e fugace ; 


Heaven's own purest waters 


E a piu fido Cultor posto in governo, 
TTnir potrai nella tranquilla pace, 


Well might wear the trace 


Ad eterna Bellezza odore eterno." Metastasio. 


Of thy consummate form, melting to softer grace. 


Rose ! what dost thou here 1 


Will that clime enfold thee 


Bridal, royal rose ! 


With immortal air? 


How, midst grief and fear, 


Shall we not behold thee 


Canst thou thus disclose [glows 1 


Bright and deathless there '] 


That fervid hue of love, which to thy heart-leaf 


In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendantly more fair ! 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 551 


Yes ! my fancy sees thee 


And all bright things are away to rest — 


In that light disclose, 


Why watch ye here alone 1 


And its dream thus frees thee 




From the mist of woes, 


" Is not your world a mournful one, 


Darkening thine earthly bowers, bridal royal 


When your sisters close their eyes, 


rose! 


And your soft breath meets not a lingering tone 




Of song in the starry skies 1 




" Take ye no joy in the dayspring's birth 


NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS. 


When it kindles the sparks of dew 1 




And the thousand strains of the forest's mirth, 


Children of night! unfolding meekly, slowly, 


Shall they gladden all but you ? 


To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours, 




When dark-blue heavens look softest and most holy, 


" Shut your sweet bells till the fawn comes out 


And glow-worm light is in the forest bowers ; 


On the sunny turf to play, 


To solemn things and deep, 


And the woodland child with a fairy shout 


To spirit-haunted sleep, 


Goes dancing on its way ! " 


To thoughts, all purified 




From earth, ye seem allied ; 


" Nay ! let our shadowy beauty bloom 


dedicated flowers ! 


When the stars give quiet light, 




And let us offer our faint perfume 


Ye, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling, 


On the silent shrine of night. 


Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined ; 




Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing, 


" Call it not wasted, the scent we lend 


Looks on you tenderly and sadly kind. 


To the breeze, when no step is nigh : 


■ — So doth love's dreaming heart 


Oh, thus for ever the earth should send 


Dwell from the throng apart, 


Her grateful breath on high ! 


And but to shades disclose 




The inmost thought, which glows 


" And love us as emblems, night's dewy flowers, 


With its pure life entwined. 


Of hopes unto sorrow given, 




That spring through the gloom of the darkest hours 


Shut from the sounds wherein the day rejoices, 


Looking alone to heaven!" 


To no triumphant song your petals thrill, 




But send forth odours with the faint, soft voices 





Rising from hidden streams, when all is still. 




— So doth lone prayer arise, 


ECHO-SONG. 


Mingling with secret sighs, 




When grief unfolds, like you, 


In thy cavern-hall, 


Her breast, for heavenly dew 


Echo ! art thou sleeping ? 


In silent hours to fill. 


By the fountain's fall 




Dreamy silence keeping? 





Yet one soft note borne 




From the shepherd's horn, 




Wakes thee, Echo ! into music leaping ! 


THE WANDERER AND THE NIGHT- 


— Strange, sweet Echo ! into music leaping. 


FLOWERS. 






Then the woods rejoice, 


" Call back your odours, lovely flowers ! 


Then glad sounds are swelling 


From the night-winds call them back ; 


From each sister-voice 


And fold your leaves till the laughing hours 


Round thy rocky dwelling ; 


Come forth in the sunbeam's track ! 


And their sweetness fills 




AU the hollow hills, 


" The lark lies couch'd in her grassy nest, 


With a thousand notes, of one life telling ! 


And the honey-bee is gone, 


—Softly mingled notes, of one life telling. 



5i>\ 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 



Echo ! in my heart 

Thus deep thoughts are lying, 
Silent and apart, 

Buried, yet undying ; 
Till some gentle tone 
"Wakening haply one, 
Calls a thousand forth, like thee replying ! 
— Strange, sweet Echo ! even like thee replying. l 



THE MUFFLED DRUM. 2 

The muffled drum was heard 

In the Pyrenees by night, 
With a dull, deep rolling sound, 
Which told the hamlets round 

Of a soldier's burial-rite. 

But it told them not how dear, 

In a home beyond the main, 
Was the warrior-youth laid low that hour 

By a mountain-stream of Spain. 

The oaks of England waved 

O'er the slumbers of his race, 
But a pine of the Ronceval made moan 

Above his last, lone place ; 

When the muffled drum was heard 

In the Pyrenees by night, 
With a dull, deep rolling sound 
Which call'd strange echoes round 

To the soldier's burial-rite. 

Brief was the sorrowing there, 
By the stream from battle red, 

And tossing on its wave the plumes 
Of many a stately head : 

But a mother — soon to die, 

And a sister — long to weep, 
Even then were breathing prayers for him 

In that home beyond the deep ; 

While the muffled drum was heard 

In the Pyrenees by night, 
With a dull, deep rolling sound, 
And the dark pines mourn'd round, 

O'er the soldier's burial-rite. 



1 This song is in the possession of Mr Power. 

2 Set to beautiful music by John Lodge, Esq. 



THE SWAN AND THE SKYLARK. 



" Adieu, adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 

I ast the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades." Keats. 

" Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 
The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest." 
Shelley . 

Midst the long reeds that o'er a Grecian stream 
Unto the faint wind sigh'd melodiously, 
And where the sculpture of a broken shrine 
Sent out thro' shadowy grass and thick wild-flowers 
Dim alabaster gleams — a lonely swan 
Warbled his death-chant ; and a poet stood 
Listening to that strange music, as it shook 
The lilies on the wave ; and made the pines 
And all the laurels of the haunted shore 
Thrill to its passion. Oh ! the tones were sweet, 
Even painfully — as with the sweetness wrung 
From parting love ; and to the poet's thought 
This was their language. 

" Summer ! I depart — 
light and laughing summer ! fare thee well : 
No song the less through thy rich woods will swell, 

For one, one broken heart. 

" And fare ye well, young flowers ! 
Ye will not mourn ! ye will shed odour still, 
And wave in glory, colouring every rill, 

Known to my youth's fresh hours. 

" And ye, bright founts ! that lie 
Far in the whispering forests, lone and deep, 
My wing no more shall stir your shadowy sleep — 

Sweet waters ! I must die. 

" Will ye not send one tone 
Of sorrow through the pines 1 — one murmur low 1 ? 
Shall not the green leaves from your voices know 

That I, your child, am gone 1 

" No ! ever glad and free 
Ye have no sounds a tale of death to tell : 
Waves, joyous waves ! flow on, and fare ye well ! 

Ye will not mourn for me. 

" But thou, sweet boon ! too late 
Pour'd on my parting breath, vain gift of song ! 
Why com'st thou thus, o'ermastering, rich and 

In the dark hour of fate 1 [strong, 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 



553 



" Only to wake the sighs 
Of echo-voices from their sparry cell ; 
Only to say — sunshine and blue skies ! 

life and love ! farewell." 

Thus flow'd the death-chant on; while mournfully 
Low winds and waves made answer, and the tones 
Buried in rocks along the Grecian stream — 
Eocks and dim caverns of old Prophecy — 
Woke to respond : and all the air was fill'd 
With that one sighing sound — Farewell/ far etc ell! 

Fill'd with that sound 1 High in the calm blue heav'n 
Even then a skylark hung ; soft summer clouds 
Were floating round him, all transpierced with light, 
And midst that pearly radiance his dark wings 
Quiver'd with song : such free, triumphant song, 
As if tears were not, — as if breaking hearts 
Had not a place below ; and thus that strain 
Spoke to the poet's ear exultingly : — 

" The summer is come ; she hath said Rejoice ! 
The wild- woods thrill to her merry voice ; 
Her sweet breath is wandering around, on high : 
Sing, sing through the echoing sky ! 

11 There is joy in the mountains ! The bright waves 

leap 
Like the bounding stag when he breaks from sleep ; 
Mirthfully, wildly, they flash along — 

Let the heavens ring with song ! 

" There is joy in the forests ! The bird of night 
Hath made the leaves tremble with deep delight; 
But mine is the glory to sunshine given — 

Sing, sing through the echoing heaven ! 

" Mine are the wings of the soaring morn, 
Mine are the fresh gales with dayspring born : 
Only young rapture can mount so high — 

Sing, sing through the echoing sky ! " 

So those two voices met ; so Joy and Death 
Mingled their accents ; and, amidst the rush 
Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried, — 
" Oh ! thou art mighty, thou art wonderful, 
Mysterious nature ! Not in thy free range 
Of woods and wilds alone, thou blendest thus 
The dirge-note and the song of festival ; 
But in one heart, one changeful human heart — 
Ay, and within one hour of that strange world — 
Thou call'st their music forth, with all its tones ; 
To startle and to pierce ! — the dying swan's, 
And the glad skylark's — triumph and despair ! " 



THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND. 

Hark ! from the dim church-tower, 

The deep, slow Curfew's chime ! 
— A heavy sound unto hall and bower 

In England's olden time ! 
Sadly 'twas heard by him who came 

From the fields of his toil at night, 
And who might not see his own hearth-flame 

In his children's eyes make light. 

Sternly and sadly heard, 

As it quench'd the wood-fire's glow, 
Which had cheer'd the board with the mirthful 

And the red wine's foaming flow ! [word, 
Until that sullen, boding knell, 

Flung out from every fane, 
On harp, and lip, and spirit, fell, 

With a weight and with a chain. 

Woe for the pilgrim then 

In the wild-deer's forest far ! 
No cottage lamp, to the haunts of men, 

Might guide him, as a star. 
And woe for him whose wakeful soul, 

With lone aspirings fill'd, 
Would have lived o'er some immortal scroll, 

While the sounds of earth were still'd ! 

And yet a deeper woe 

For the watcher by the bed, 
Where the fondly-loved in pain lay low, 

In pain and sleepless dread ! 
For the mother, doom'd unseen to keep 

By the dying babe, her place, 
And to feel its sleeping pulse, and weep, 

Yet not behold its face ! 

Darkness in chieftain's hall ! 

Darkness in peasant's cot ! 
While freedom, under that shadowy pall, 

Sat mourning o'er her lot. 
Oh ! the fireside's peace we well may prize ! 

For blood hath flow'd like rain, 
Pour'd forth to make sweet sanctuaries 

Of England's homes again. 

Heap the yule-faggots high 

Till the red light fills the room ! 

It is home's own hour when the stormy sky 
Grows thick with evening gloom. 

Gather ye round the holy hearth, 
And by its gladdening blaze, 



554 



MISCELLANEOUS LYEICS. 



Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth, 
"With a thought of the olden days ! 



GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE. 

" That voice re-measures 
Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures 
The things of nature utter ; birds or trees, 
Or where the tall grass mid the heath-plant waves, 
Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze." Coleridge. 

I heard a song upon the wandering wind, 
A song of many tones — though one full soul 
Breathed through them all imploringly; and made 
All nature as they pass'd, all quivering leaves 
And low responsive reeds and waters, thrill 
As with the consciousness of human prayer. 
—At times the passion-kindled melody 
Might seem to gush from Sappho's fervent heart, 
Over the wild sea-wave ; — at times the strain 
Flow'd with more plaintive sweetness, as if born 
Of Petrarch's voice, beside the lone Vaucluse ; 
And sometimes, with its melancholy swell, 
A graver sound was mingled, a deep note 
Of Tasso's holy lyre . Yet still the tones 
Were of a suppliant — " Leave me not !" was still 
The burden of their music ; and I knew 
The lay which Genius, in its loneliness, 
Its own still world, amidst th' o'erpeopled world, 
Hath ever breathed to Love. 

" They crown me with the glistening crown, 
Borne from a deathless tree ; 
I hear the pealing music of renown — 
Love ! forsake me not ! 
Mine were a lone, dark lot, 
Bereft of thee ! 
They tell me that my soul can throw 
A glory o'er the earth ; 
From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow ! 
Shed by thy gentle eyes, 
It gives to flower and skies 
A bright, new birth ! 

" Thence gleams the path of morning 

Over the kindling hills, a sunny zone ! 
Thence to its heart of hearts the rose is burning 
"With lustre not its own ! 
Thence every wood-recess 
Is fill'd with loveliness, 
Each bower, to ring-doves and dim violets known. 

" I see all beauty by the ray 

That streameth from thy smile ; 



Oh ! bear it, bear it not away ! 
Can that sweet light beguile 1 

Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems, 
To linger long by earthly streams ; 
I clasp it with th' alloy 
Of fear midst quivering joy. 
Yet must I perish if the gift depart — 
Leave me not, Love ! to mine own beating heart ! 

" The music from my lyre 
With thy swift step would flee ; 
The world's coldbreath would quench the starry fire 
In my deep soul — a temple fill'd with thee ! 
Seal'd would the fountains lie, 
The waves of harmony, 
Which thou alone canst free ! 

" Like a shrine midst rocks forsaken, 
Whence the oracle hath fled ; 
Like a harp which none might waken 

But a mighty master dead ; 
Like the vase of a perfume scatter' d, 

Such would my spirit be — 
So mute, so void, so shatter'd, 
Bereft of thee ! 

" Leave me not, Love ! or if this earth 
Yield not for thee a home, 
If the bright summer-land of thy pure birth 
Send thee a silvery voice that whispers 'Come/' 
Then, with the glory from the rose, 

With the sparkle from the stream, 
With the light thy rainbow-presence throws 
Over the poet's dream ; 
With all th' Elysian hues 
Thy pathway that suffuse, 
With joy, with music, from the fading grove, 
Take me, too, heavenward onthy wing, sweet Love !" 



MUSIC AT A DEATHBED. 

"■ Music ! why thy power employ 
Only for the sons of joy ? 
Only for the smiling guests 
At natal or at nuptial feasts ? 
Rather thy lenient numbers pour 
On those whom secret griefs devour ; 
And with some softly-whisper'd air 
Smooth the brow of dumb despair ! " 

Warton from Euripides. 

Being music ! stir the brooding air 

With an ethereal breath ! 
Bring sounds, my struggling soul to bear 

Up from the couch of death ! 



MISCELLANEOUS LYEICS. 555 


A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay, 


Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there, 


Such as the southern breeze 


By a proudly mournful band. 


Might waft, at golden fall of day, 




O'er blue, transparent seas ! 


In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle's blast, 




Thy long bright years had sped ; 


Oh, no ! not such ! That lingering spell 


And a warrior's bier was thine at last, 


Would lure me back to life, 


When the snows had crown'd thy head. 


When my wean'd heart hath said farewell, 




And pass'd the gates of strife. 


Many had fallen by thy side, old chief ! 




Brothers and friends, perchance ; 


Let not a sigh of human love 


But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf, 


Blend with the song its tone ! 


And light was in thy glance. 


Let no disturbing echo move 




One that must die alone ! 


The soldier's heart at thy step leapt high, 




And thy voice the war-horse knew ; 


But pour a solemn-breathing strain 


And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh, 


Fill'd with the soul of prayer ! 


Wert thou, the bold and true. 


Let a life's conflict, fear, and pain, 




And trembling hope be there. 


Now may'st thou slumber — thy work is done — 




Thou of the well-worn sword ! 


Deeper, yet deeper ! In my thought 


From the stormy fight in thy fame thou'rt gone, 


Lies more prevailing sound, 


But not to the festal board. 


A harmony intensely fraught 




With pleading more profound : 


The corn- sheaves whisper thy grave around, 




Where fiery blood hath flow'd : 


A passion unto music given, 


lover of battle and trumpet-sound ! 


A sweet, yet piercing cry ; 


Thou art couch'd in a still abode ! 


A breaking heart's appeal to Heaven, 




A bright faith's victory ! 


A quiet home from the noonday's glare, 




And the breath of the wintry blast — 


Deeper ! Oh ! may no richer power 


Didst thou toil through the days of thy silvery hair, 


Be in those notes enshrined 1 


To win thee but this at last 1 


Can all which crowds on earth's last hour 




No fuller language find 1 





Away ! and hush the feeble song, 


THE FALLEN LIME-TREE. 


And let the chord be still'd ! 




Far in another land ere long 


jot of the peasant ! stately lime ! 


My dream shall be fulfill'd. 


Thou art fall'n in thy golden honey-time ! 




Thou whose wavy shadows, 





Long and long ago, 




Screen'd our gray forefathers 


MAESHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE. 


From the noontide's glow ; 




Thou, beneath whose branches, 


[" I came upon the tomb of Marshal Schwerin — a plain, 


Touch'd with moonlight gleams, 


quiet cenotaph, erected in the middle of a wide corn-field, 


Lay our early poets 


on the very spot where he closed a long, faithful, and glori- 


Wrapt in fairy dreams. 


ous career in arms. He fell here, at eighty years of age, at 


tree of our fathers ! hallow'd tree ! 


the head of his own regiment, the standard of it waving 




in his hand. His seat was in the leathern saddle — his 


A glory is gone from our home with thee. 


foot in the iron stirrup — >his fingers reined the young war- 




horse to the last." — Notes and Reflections during a Ramble 


Where shall now the weary 


into Germany.] 


Rest through summer eves'? 


Thou didst fall in the field with thy silver hair, 


Or the bee find honey, 


And a banner in thy hand ; 


As on thy sweet leaves 1 



556 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 



Where shall now the ringdove 

Build again her nest 1 
She so long the inmate 
Of thy fragrant breast ! 
But the sons of the peasant have lost in thee 
Far more than the ringdove, far more than the bee ! 

These may yet find coverts 

Leafy and profound, 
Full of dewy dimness, 

Odour, and soft sound : 
But the gentle memories 

Clinging all to thee, 
When shall they be gather'd 
Round another tree 1 
pride of our fathers ! hallow'd tree ! 
The crown of the hamlet is fallen in thee ! 



THE BIRD AT SEA. 

Bird of the greenwood ! 

Oh, why art thou here ? 
Leaves dance not o'er thee, 

Flowers bloom not near. 
All the sweet waters 

Far hence are at play — 
Bird of the greenwood ! 

Away, away ! 

Where the mast quivers 

Thy place will not be, 
As midst the waving 

Of wild-rose and tree. 
How shouldst thou battle 

With storm and with spray ' 
Bird of the greenwood ! 

Away, away ! 

Or art thou seeking 

Some brighter land, 
Where by the south wind 

Vine leaves are fann'd 1 
'Midst the wild billows 

Why then delay ] 
Bird of the greenwood ! 

Away, away ! 

" Chide not my lingering 
Where storms are dark; 

A hand that hath nursed me 
Is in the bark — 

A heart that hath cherish'd 
Through winter's long day : 



So I turn from the greenwood, 
Away, away ! " 



THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS. 



" I desire as I look on these, the ornaments and children of 
earth, to know whether, indeed, such things I shall see no more ? — 
whether they have no likeness, no archetype in the world in which 
my future home is to he cast ? or whether they have their images 
above, only wrought in a more wondrous and delightful mould." — 
" Conversations with an ambitious Student in ill health." 



Bear them not from grassy dells 
Where wild bees have honey-cells ; 
Not from where sweet water-sounds 
Thrill the greenwood to its bounds ; 
Not to waste their scented breath 
On the silent room of Death ! 

Kindred to the breeze they are, 
And the glow-worm's emerald star, 
And the bird whose song is free, 
And the many-whispering tree : 
Oh ! too deep a love, and vain, 
They would win to earth again. 

Spread them not before the eyes 
Closing fast on summer skies ! 
Woo thou not the spirit back 
From its lone and viewless track, 
With the bright things which have birth 
Wide o'er all the colour'd earth ! 

With the violet's breath would rise 
Thoughts too sad for her who dies ; 
From the lily's pearl-cup shed, 
Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed ; 
Dreams of youth — of spring-time's eves- 
Music — beauty — all she leaves ! 

Hush ! 'tis thou that dreaming art, 
Calmer is her gentle heart. 
Yes ! o'er fountain, vale, and grove, 
Leaf and flower, hath gush'd her love ; 
But that passion, deep and true, 
Knows not of a last adieu. 

Types of lovelier forms than these 
In their fragile mould she sees ; 
Shadows of yet richer things, 
Born beside immortal springs, 
Into fuller glory wrought, 
Kindled by surpassing thought ! 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 557 


Therefore, in the lily's leaf, 


High from the fields of air look down 


She can read no word of grief; 


Those eyries of a vanish'd race, 


O'er the woodbine she can dwell, 


Where harp, and battle, and renown, 


Murmuring not — Farewell ! farewell ! 


Have pass'd, and left no trace. 


And her dim, yet speaking eye 


But thou art there ! — serenely bright, 


Greets the violet solemnly. 


Meeting the mountain-storms with bloom, 




Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height, 


Therefore once, and yet again, 


Or crown the lowliest tomb ! 


Strew them o'er her bed of pain ; 


Ivy ! Ivy ! all are thine, 


From her chamber take the gloom 


Palace, hearth, and shrine. 


With a light and flush of bloom : 




So should one depart, who goes 


'Tis still the same : our pilgrim-tread 


Where no death can touch the rose ! 


O'er classic plains, through deserts free, 




On the mute path of ages fled, 


— 


Still meets decay and thee. 




And still let man his fabrics rear, 


THE IVY-SONG. 1 


August in beauty, stern in power — 




Days pass — thou Ivy never sere, 1 


Oh ! how could fancy crown with thee, 


And thou shalt have thy dower. 


In ancient days, the God of Wine, 


All are thine, or must be thine — 


And bid thee at the banquet be 


Temple, pillar, shrine ! 


Companion of the Vine? 




Ivy ! thy home is where each sound 


. 


Of revelry hath long been o'er ; 




Where song and beaker once went round, 


THE MUSIC OF ST PATRICK'S. 


But now are known no more ; 




Where long-fallen gods recline, 


[The choral music of St Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin, is 


There the place is thine. 


almost unrivalled in its combined powers of voice, organ, and 




scientific skill. The majestic harmony of effect thus produced 


The Roman, on his battle-plains, 
Where kings before his eagles bent, 


is not a little deepened by the character of the church itself, 


which, though small, yet with its dark rich fretwork, knightly 
helmets and banners, and old monumental effigies, seems all 


With thee, amidst exulting strains, 


filled and overshadowed by the spirit of chivalrous antiquity. 


Shadow'd the victor's tent. 
Though, shining there in deathless green, 
Triumphantly thy boughs might wave, 


The imagination never fails to recognise it as a fitting scene 
for high solemnities of old — a place to witness the solitary vigil 
of arms, or to resound with the funeral march at the burial 
of some warlike king.] 


Better thou lovest the silent scene 




Around the victor's grave- 


" All the choir 


Urn and sculpture half divine 


Sang Hallelujah, as the sound of seas." — Milton. 


Yield their place to thine. 






Again ! oh ! send that anthem-peal again 


The cold halls of the regal dead, 


Through the arch'd roof in triumph to the sky ! 


Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell, 


Bid the old tombs ring proudly to the strain, 


Where hollow sounds the lightest tread- 


The banners thrill as if with victory ! 


Ivy ! they know thee well ! 




And far above the festal vine 


Such sounds the warrior awe-struck might have 


Thou wavest where once proud banners hung, 


heard, 


Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine — 


While arm'd for fields of chivalrous renown : 


The Rhine, still fresh and young ! 


Such the high hearts of Icings might well have stirr'd, 


Tower and rampart o'er the Rhine, 


While throbbing still beneath the recent crown ! 


Ivy ! all are thine ! 




1 This song, as originally written, the reader will have met 
with in an earlier part of this publication, (p. 354.) Being 


Those notes once more ! — they bear my soul away, 
They lend the wings of morning to its flight ; 


afterwards completely remodelled by Mrs Hemans, perhaps no 




apology is requisite for its re-insertion here. 


1 " Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere." — Lycidas. 



558 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 



No earthly passion in th' exulting lay 
Whispers one tone to win me from that height. 

All is of Heaven ! Yet wherefore to mine eye 
Gush the vain tears unbidden from their source, 
Even while the waves of that strong harmony 
Roll with my spirit on their sounding course 1 

Wherefore must rapture its full heart reveal 
Thus by the burst of sorrow's token shower ! 
— Oh ! is it not, that humbly we may feel 
Our nature's limit in its proudest hour ? 

[The mention of Neukomm's magnificent organ-playing 
brings to remembrance one great enjoyment of MrsHemans's 
residence in Dublin — the exquisite " Music of St Patrick's," 
of which she has recorded her impressions in the little poem 
so entitled. Its effect is, indeed, such as, once heard, can 
never be forgotten. If ever earthly music can be satisfying, 
it must surely be such as this, bringing home to our bosoms 
the solemn beauty of our own holy liturgy, with all its precious 
and endeared associations, in tones that make the heart swell 
with ecstasy, and the eyes overflow with unbidden tears. 
There was one anthem, frequently heard within those ancient 
walls, which Mrs Hemans used to speak of with peculiar 
enthusiasm — that from the 3d Psalm — " Lord, how are they 
increased that trouble me !" The consummate skill exhibited 
in the adaptation of sound to sense in this noble composition 
is, in truth, most admirable. The symphony to the 5th 
verse — " I laid me down and slept " — with its soft, dreamy 
vibrations, gentle as the hovering of an angel's wing — the 
utter abandon, the melting into slumber, implied by the half- 
whispered words that came breathing as from a world of 
spirits — almost " steep the senses in forgetfulness," when a 
sudden outbreak, as it were, of life and light, bursts forth with 
the glad announcement, " I awaked, for the Lord sustained 
me;" and then the old sombre arches ring with an almost 
overpowering peal of triumph, bearing to Heaven's gate the 
exulting chorus of the 6th and 8th verses. — Memoir, p. 260-1.] 



KEENE ; OR, LAMENT OF AN IRISH 
MOTHER OVER HER SON. 

[This lament is intended to imitate the peculiar style of the 
Irish Keenes, many of which are distinguished by a wild and 
deep pathos, and other characteristics analogous to those of 
the national music] 

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on ; 
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son ! 
Silent and dark ! 

There is blood upon the threshold 
Whence thy step went forth at morn 

Like a dancer's in its fleetness, 
my bright first-born ! 



1 This, and the five following songs, have been set to music 
of great merit, by J. Zeugheer Herrmann and H. F. Chorley, 



At the glad sound of that footstep 
My heart within me smiled ; — 

Thou wert brought me back all silent 
On thy bier, my child ! 

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on ; 
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son ! 
Silent and dark ! 

I thought to see thy children 
Laugh on me with thine eyes ; 

But my sorrow's voice is lonely 
Where my life's flower lies. 

I shall go to sit beside thee, 
Thy kindred's graves among ; 

I shall hear the tall grass whisper — 
I shall not hear it long. 

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on ; 
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son ! 
Silent and dark ! 

And I, too, shall find slumber 
With my lost one in the earth ; — 

Let none light up the ashes 
Again on our hearth ! 

Let the roof go down ! — let silence 

On the home for ever fall, 
Where my boy lay cold, and heard not 

His lone mother's call ! 

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on ; 
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son ! 
Silent and dark ! 



FAR AWAY. 1 

Far away ! — my home is far away, 

Where the blue sea laves a mountain-shore ; 
In the woods I hear my brothers play, 

Midst the flowers my sister sings once more, 
Far away ! 

Far away ! — my dreams are far away, 

When at midnight stars and shadows reign : 

" Gentle child ! " my mother seems to say, 
" Follow me where home shall smile again, 
Far away !" 



Esq., and are published in a set by Mr Power, who has given 
permission for the appearance of the words in this volume. 



MISCELLANEOUS LYKICS. 559 


Far away ! — my hope is far away, 


Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted ; 


Where love's voice young gladness may restore. 


Tell me not of young hopes blasted ; 


— thou dove ! now soaring through the day, 


Wring not forth one burning word, 


Lend me wings to reach that better shore, 


Let thy heart no more be stirr'd ! 


Far away ! 


Home alone can give thee rest. 




— Weep, sweet sister ! on my breast ! 


THE LYEE AND FLOWER. 







THE LONELY BIRD. 


A ltee its plaintive sweetness pour'd 




Forth on the wild wind's track ; 


From a ruin thou art singing, 


The stormy wanderer jarr'd the chord, 


lonely, lonely bird ! 


But gave no music back. — 


The soft blue air is ringing, 


child of song ! 


By thy summer music stirr'd. 


Bear hence to heaven thy fire : 


But all is dark and cold beneath, 


What hopest thou from the reckless throng ? 


Where harps no more are heard : 


Be not like that lost lyre ! 


Whence win'st thou that exulting breath, 


Not like that lyre ! 


lonely, lonely bird % 


A flower its leaves and odours cast 


Thy songs flow richly swelling 


On a swift-rolling wave ; 


To a triumph of glad sounds, 


Th' unheeding torrent darkly pass'd, 


As from its cavern-dwelling 


And back no treasure gave. — 


A stream in glory bounds ! 


heart of love ! 


Though the castle-echoes catch no tone 


Waste not thy precious dower : 


Of human step or word, [done, 


Turn to thine only home above ! 


Though the fires be quench' d and the feasting 


Be not like that lost flower ! 


lonely, lonely bird ] 


Not like that flower ! 






How can that flood of gladness 





Rush through thy fiery lay, 




From the haunted place of sadness, 


SISTER ! SINCE I MET THEE LAST. 


From the bosom of decay — 




While the dirge-notes in the breeze's moan, 


Sister ! since I met thee last, 


Through the ivy garlands heard, 


O'er thy brow a change hath past. 


Come blent with thy rejoicing tone, 


In the softness of thine eyes, 


lonely, lonely bird ? 


Deep and still a shadow lies ; 




From thy voice there thrills a tone 


There's many a heart, wild singer ! 


Never to thy childhood known ; 


Like thy forsaken tower, 


Through thy soul a storm hath moved, 


Where joy no more may linger, 


— Gentle sister! thou hast loved ! 


Where Love hath left his bower : 




And there's many a spirit e'en like thee, 


Yes ! thy varying cheek hath caught 


To mirth as lightly stirr'd, 


Hues too bright from troubled thought ; 


Though it soar from ruins in its glee, 


Far along the wandering stream 


lonely, lonely bird ! 


Thou art follow'd by a dream ; 




In the woods and valleys lone 


■ 


Music haunts thee, not thine own : 


DIRGE AT SEA. 


Wherefore fall thy tears like rain 1 




— Sister ! thou hast loved in vain ! 


Sleep ! — we give thee to the wave, 




Red with life-blood from the brave. 


Tell me not the tale, my flower ! 


Thou shalt find a noble grave. 


On my bosom pour that shower ! 


Fare thee well ! 



560 MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 


Sleep ! thy billowy field is won : 




Proudly may the funeral gun, 


THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. 


Midst the hush at set of sun, 




Boom thy knell ! 






" We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words and 




looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few short moments: 


Lonely, lonely is thy bed, 


and then days, months, years intervene, and we see and know nothing 


Never there may flower be shed, 


of each other." — Washington Irving. 


Marble rear'd, or brother's head 




Bow'd to weep. 


Two barks met on the deep mid-sea, 




When calms had still'd the tide ; 


Yet thy record on the sea, 


A few bright days of summer glee 


Borne through battle high and free, 


There found them side by side. 


Long the red-cross flag shall be. 




Sleep ! oh, sleep ! 


And voices of the fair and brave 




Rose mingling thence in mirth ; 




And sweetly floated o'er the wave 




The melodies of earth. 


PILGRIM'S SONG TO THE EVENING STAR. 


Moonlight on that lone Indian main 




Cloudless and lovely slept ; 


soft star of the west ! 


While dancing step, and festive strain 


Gleaming far, 


Each deck in triumph swept. 


Thou'rt guiding all things home, 




Gentle star ! 


And hands were link'd, and answering eyes 


Thou bring'st from rock and wave 


With kindly meaning shone ; 


The sea-bird to her nest, 


Oh ! brief and passing sympathies, 


The hunter from the hills, 


Like leaves together blown ! 


The fisher back to rest. 




Light of a thousand streams, 


A little while such joy was cast 


Gleaming far ! 


Over the deep's repose, 


soft star of the west ! 


Till the loud singing winds at last 


Blessed star ! 


Like trumpet-music rose. 


No bowery roof is mine, 


And proudly, freely on their way 


No hearth of love and rest, 


The parting vessels bore ; 


Yet guide me to my shrine, 


In calm or storm, by rock or bay, 


soft star of the west ! 


To meet — oh, never mora ! 


There, there my home shall be, 




Heaven's dew shall cool my breast, 


Never to blend in victory's cheer, 


When prayer and tear gush free, 


To aid in hours of woe : 


soft star of the west ! 


And thus bright spirits mingle here, 




Such ties are form'd below ! 


soft star of the west, 




Gleaming far ! 




Thou'rt guiding all things home, 





Gentle star ! 




Shine from thy rosy heaven, 


COME AWAY. 


Pour joy on earth and sea ! 




Shine on, though no sweet eyes 




Look forth to watch for me ! 


Come away! — the child, where flowers are springing 


Light of a thousand streams, 


Round its footsteps on the mountain-slope, 


Gleaming afar ! 


Hears a glad voice from the upland singing, 


soft star of the west ! 


Like the skylark's with its tone of hope : 


Blessed star ! 


Come away ! 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 561 


Bounding on, with sunny lands before him, 


Surely my blood thy life hath won — 


All the wealth of glowing life outspread, 


Clasp me once more — I go ! 


Ere the shadow of a cloud comes o'er him, 




By that strain the youth in joy is led : 





Come away ! 






MUSIC FROM SHORE. 


Slowly, sadly, heavy change is falling 




O'er the sweetness of the voice within ; 


A sound comes on the rising breeze, 


Yet its tones, on restless manhood calling, 


A sweet and lovely sound ! 


Urge the hunter still to chase, to win : 


Piercing the tumult of the seas 


Come away ! 


That wildly dash around. 


Come away ! — the heart at last forsaken, 


From land, from sunny land it comes, 


Smile by smile, hath proved each hope untrue; 


From hills with murmuring trees, 


Yet a breath can still those words awaken, 


From paths by still and happy homes — 


Though to other shores far hence they woo : 


That sweet sound on the breeze. 


Come away ! 






"Why should its faint and passing sigh 


In the light leaves, in the reed's faint sighing, 


Thus bid my quick pulse leap ] 


In the low, sweet sounds of early spring, 


No part in earth's glad melody 


Still their music wanders — till the dying 


Is mine upon the deep. 


Hears them pass, as on a spirit's wing : 




Come away ! 


Yet blessing, blessing on the spot 




"Whence those rich breathings flow ! 





Kind hearts, although they know me not, 




Like mine there beat and glow. 


FAIR HELEN" OF KIRKCONNEL. 






And blessing, from the bark that roams 


[" Fair Helen of Kirkconnel," as she is called in the Scot- 


O'er solitary seas, 


tish Minstrelsy, throwing herself between her betrothed lover 


To those that far in happy homes 


and a rival by whom his life was assailed, received a mortal 


Give sweet sounds to the breeze ! 


wound, and died in the arms of the former.] 




Hold me upon thy faithful heart, 





Keep back my flitting breath ; 




'Tis early, early to depart, 


LOOK ON ME WITH THY CLOUDLESS 


Beloved ! — yet this is death ! 


EYES. 


Look on me still — let that kind eye 


Look on me with thy cloudless eyes, 


Be the last light I see ! 


Truth in their dark transparence lies ; 


Oh ! sad it is in spring to die, 


Their sweetness gives me back the tears 


But yet I die for thee ! 


And the free trust of early years, 




My gentle child ! 


For thee, my own ! — thy stately head 




"Was never thus to bow : 


The spirit of my infant prayer 


Give tears when with me love hath fled, 


Shines in the depths of quiet there ; 


True love, thou know'st it now ! 


And home and love once more are mine, 




Found in that dewy calm divine, 


Oh, the free streams look'd bright, where'er 


My gentle child ! 


We in our gladness roved ; 




And the blue skies were very fair, 


Oh ! heaven is with thee in thy dreams, 


friend ! because we loved. 


Its light by day around thee gleams — 




Thy smile hath gifts from vernal skies : 


Farewell ! — I bless thee — live thou on 


Look on me with thy cloudless eyes, 


When this young heart is low ! 


My gentle child ! 



562 MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 


IF THOU HAST CRUSH'D A FLOWER. 


Ere with dust o'er spread : 




Lilies ne'er by tempest blown, 


" Oh, cast thou not 


White rose which no stain hath known, 


Affection from thee ! In this bitter world 
Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast ; 


Be about thee shed ! 


Watch— guard it— suffer not a breath to dim 




The bright gem's purity ! " 


So we give thee to the earth, 


If thou hast crush'd a flower, 


And the primrose shall have birth 


The root may not be blighted ; 


O'er thy gentle head ; 


If thou hast quench'd a lamp, 


Thou that, like a dewdrop borne 


Once more it may be lighted : 


On a sudden breeze of morn, 


But on thy harp, or on thy lute, 


Brightly thus hast fled ! 


The string which thou hast broken 




Shall never in sweet sound again 





Give to thy touch a token ! 


THE BED OF HEATH. 


If thou hast loosed a bird 


" Soldier, awake ! the night is past ; 


Whose voice of song could cheer thee, 


Hear'st thou not the bugle's blast 1 


Still, still he may be won 


Feel'st thou not the dayspring's breath 1 


From the skies to warble near thee : 


Rouse thee from thy bed of heath ! 


But if upon the troubled sea 


Arm, thou bold and strong ! 


Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded, 


Soldier! what deep spell hath bound thee? 


Hope not that wind or wave will bring 


Fiery steeds are neighing round thee — 


The treasure back when needed. 


Banners to the fresh wind play : 




Rise, and arm — 'tis day, 'tis day ! 


If thoti hast bruised a vine, 


And thou hast slumber'd long." 


The summer's breath is healing, 




And its clusters yet may glow 


"Brother ! on the heathery lea 


Through the leaves their bloom revealing : 


Longer yet my sleep must be ; 


But if thou hast a cup o'erthrown 


Though the morn of battle rise, 


With a bright draught fill'd — oh ! never 


Darkly night rolls o'er my eyes — 


Shall earth give back that lavish'd wealth 


Brother, this is death ! 


To cool thy parch'd lip's fever ! 


Call me not when bugles sound, 




Call me not when wine flows round ; 


The heart is like that cup, 


Name me but amidst the brave, 


If thou waste the love it bore thee ; 


Give me but a soldier's grave — 


And like that jewel gone, 


But my bed of heath !" 


Which the deep will not restore thee ; 




And like that string of harp or lute 





Whence the sweet sound is scatter' d, — 




Gently, oh ! gently touch the chords, 


FAIRY SONG. 


So soon for ever shatter'd ! 






Have ye left the greenwood lone, 





Are your steps for ever gone ] 


BRIGHTLY HAST THOU FLED. 


Fairy King and Elfin Queen, 




Come ye to the sylvan scene, 


Brightly, brightly hast thou fled ! 


From your dim and distant shore, 


Ere one grief had bow'd thy head ! 


Never more 1 


Brightly didst thou part ! 




With thy young thoughts pure from spot. 


Shall the pilgrim never hear 


With thy fond love wasted not, 


With a thrill of joy and fear, 


With thy bounding heart. 


In the hush of moonlight hours, 




Voices from the folded flowers, 


Ne'er by sorrow to be wet, 


Faint, sweet flute-notes as of yore, 


Calmly smiles thy pale cheek yet, 


Never more 1 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 563 


" Mortal ! ne'er shall bowers of earth. 
Hear again our midnight mirth : 


LOOK ON ME THUS NO MORE. 


By our brooks and dingles green 


It is thy pity makes me weep, 


Since unhallow'd steps have been, 


My soul was strong before ; 


Ours shall thread the forests hoar 


Silent, yet strong its griefs to keep 


Never more. 


From vainly gushing o'er. 




Turn from me, turn those gentle eyes ! 


" Ne'er on earthborn lily's stem 


In this fond gaze my spirit dies : 


Will we hang the dewdrop's gem ; 


Look on me thus no more ! 


Ne'er shall reed or cowslip's head 




Quiver to our dancing tread, 


Too late that softness comes to bless, 


By sweet fount or murmuring shore — 


My heart's, glad life is o'er ; 


Never more !" 


It will but break with tenderness, 




Which cannot now restore ! 





The lyre-strings have been jarr'd too long, 


WHAT WOKE THE BURIED SOUND. 


Winter hath touch'd the source of song ! 
Look on me thus no more ! 


What woke the buried sound that lay 




In Memnon's harp of yore ? 


. 


What spirit on its viewless way 




Along the Nile's green shore 1 


O'ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS. 


Oh ! not the night, and not the storm, 




And not the lightning's fire ; 


O'er the far blue mountains, 


But sunlight's torch, the kind, the warm — 


O'er the white sea-foam, 


This, this awoke the lyre. 


Come, thou long-parted one ! 




Back to thine home. 


What wins the heart's deep chords to pour 




Thus music forth on life — 


When the bright fire shineth, 


Like a sweet voice prevailing o'er 


Sad looks thy place, 


The truant sounds of strife 1 


While the true heart pineth 


Oh ! not the conflict midst the throng, 


Missing thy face. 


Not e'en the trumpet's hour ; 




Love is the gifted and the strong, 


Music is sorrowful 


To wake that music's power ! 


Since thou art gone ; 




Sisters are mourning thee — 


SING TO ME, GONDOLIER ! 


Come to thine own ! 


Sing to me, Gondolier ! 


Hark ! the home-voices call 


Sing words from Tasso's lay ; 


Back to thy rest ; 


While blue, and still, and clear, 


Come to thy father's hall, 


Night seems but softer day. 


Thy mother's breast ! 


The gale is gently falling, 




As if it paused to hear 


O'er the far blue mountains, 


Some strain the past recalling — 


O'er the white sea-foam, 


Sing to me, Gondolier ! 


Come, thou long-parted one ! 




Back to thine home. 


" Oh, ask me not to wake 




The memory of the brave ; 





Bid no high numbers break 
The silence of the wave. 


THOU BREEZE OF SPRING! 


Gone are the noble-hearted, 


thou breeze of spring, 


1 Closed the bright pageants here ; 


Gladdening sea and shore ! 


And the glad song is departed 


Wake the woods to sing, 


From the mournful Gondolier ! " 


Wake my heart no more ! 



564 MISCELLANEOUS LYEICS. 


Streams have felt the sighing 


Flowers have shut with fading light — 


Of thy scented wing, 


Good-night ! 


Let each fount replying 




Hail thee, breeze of spring ! 


Go to rest ! 


Once more ! 


Sleep sit dove-like on thy breast ! 




If within that secret cell 


O'er long-buried flowers 


One dark form of memory dwell, 


Passing not in vain, 


Be it mantled from thy sight — 


Odours in soft showers 


Good-night ! 


Thou hast brought again. 




Let the primrose greet thee, 


Joy be thine ! 


Let the violet pour 


Kind looks o'er thy slumbers shine ! 


Incense forth to meet thee — ■ 


Go, and in the spirit-land 


Wake my heart no more ! 


Meet thy home's long-parted band; 


No more ! 


Be their eyes all love and light — 




Good-night ! 


From a funeral urn 




Bower d in leafy gloom, 


Peace to all ! 


Even thy soft return 


Dreams of heaven on mourners fall ! 


Calls not song or bloom. 


Exile ! o'er thy couch may gleams 


Leave my spirit sleeping 


Pass from thine own mountain-streams ; 


Like that silent thing ; 


Bard ! away to worlds more bright — 


Stir the founts of weeping 


Good-night 1 


There, breeze of spring ! 




No more ! 








LET HER DEPART. 


COME TO ME, DEEAMS OP HEAVEN ! 






Her home is far, oh ! far away ! 


Come to me, dreams of heaven ! 


The clear light in her eyes 


My fainting spirit bear 


Hath naught to do with earthly day — 


On your bright wings, by morning given, 


'Tis kindled from the skies. 


Up to celestial air. 


Let her depart ! 


Away — far, far away, 




From bowers by tempests riven, 


She looks upon the things of earth, 


Fold me in blue, still, cloudless day, 


Even as some gentle star 


blessed dreams of heaven ! 


Seems gazing down on grief or mirth, 




How softly, yet how far ! 


Come but for one brief hour, 


Let her depart ! 


Sweet dreams ! and yet again 




O'er burning thought and memory shower 


Her spirit's hope — her bosom's love — 


Your soft effacing rain ! 


Oh ! could they mount and fly ! 


"Waft me where gales divine, 


She never sees a wandering dove, 


With dark clouds ne'er have striven, 


But for its wings to sigh. 


Where living founts for ever shine — 


Let her depart ! 


blessed dreams of heaven ! 






She never hears a soft wind bear 





Low music on its way, 


GOOD-NIGHT. 


But deems it sent from heavenly air 




For her who cannot stay. 


Day is past ! 


Let her depart ! 


Stars have set their watch at last ; 




Founts that through the deep woods flow 


Wrapt in a cloud of glorious dreams, 


Make sweet sounds, unheard till now; 


She breathes and moves alone, 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 565 


Pining for those bright bowers and streams 


Sweetness is lingering in its leaves, 


Where her beloved is gone. 


Though faded be their smile. 


Let her depart ! 


Yet, for the sake of what hath been, 




Oh, cast it not away ! 





'Twas born to grace a summer scene, 


HOW CAN THAT LOVE SO DEEP, SO LONE. 


A long, bright, golden day, 

My love ! 
A long, bright, golden day ! 


How can that love so deep, so lone, 


So faithful unto death, 




Thus fitfully in laughing tone, 


A little while around thee, love ! 


In airy word, find breath 1 ? 


Its fragrance yet shall cling, 




Telling, that on thy heart hath lain 


Nay ! ask how on the dark wave's breast, 


A fair, though faded thing. 


The lily's cup may gleam, 


But not even that warm heart hath power 


Though many a mournful secret rest 


To win it back from fate, — 


Low in the unfathom'd stream. 


Oh ! / am like thy broken flower, 




Cherish'd too late, too late, 


That stream is like my hidden love, 


My love ! 


In its deep current's power ; 


Cherish'd alas ! too late ! 


And like the play of words above, 




That lily's trembling flower. 


■ 





I WOULD W T E HAD NOT MET AGAIN. 


WATER-LILIES. 






I would we had not met again ! 


A FAIRY SONG. 


I had a dream of thee, 


Come away, elves ! — while the dew is sweet, 


Lovely, though sad, on desert-plain — 


Come to the dingles where fairies meet ! 


Mournful on midnight sea. 


Know that the lilies have spread their bells 




O'er all the pools in our forest dells ; 


What though it haunted me by night, 


Stilly and lightly their vases rest 


And troubled through the day ] 


On the quivering sleep of the water's breast, 


It touch'd all earth with spirit-light, 


Catching the sunshine through leaves that throw 


It glorified my way ! 


To then scented bosoms an emerald glow ; 




And a star from the depth of each pearly cup, 


Oh ! what shall now my fai^h restore 


A golden star unto heaven looks up, 


In holy things and fair 1 


As if seeking its kindred where bright they lie, 


We met — I saw thy soul once more — 


Set in the blue of the summer sky. 


The world's breath had been there ! 


Come away ! Under arching boughs we'll float, 




Making those urns each a fairy boat ; 


Yes ! it was sad on desert-plain, 


We'll row them with reeds o'er the fountains free, 


Mournful on midnight sea ; 


And a tall flag-leaf shall our streamer be ; 


Yet would I buy with life again 


And we'll send out wild music so sweet and low, 


That one deep dream of thee ! 


It shall seem from the bright flower's heart to flow, 




As if 'twere a breeze with a flute's low sigh, 


■ 


Or water-drops train'd into melody. 




Come away ! for the midsummer sun grows strong, 


FAIRIES' RECALL. 


And the life of the lily may not be long. 






While the blue is richest 





In the starry sky, 


THE BROKEN FLOWER. 


While the softest shadows 




On the greensward lie, 


Oh ! wear it on thy heart, my love ! 


While the moonlight slumbers 


Still, still a little while ! 


In the lily's urn, 



566 MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 


Bright elves of the wild-wood ! 


With the winds of spring, 


Oh ! return, return ! 


With the breath of flowers, 




Floating back, ye bring 


Round the forest-fountain, 


Thoughts of vanish'd hours. 


On the river-shore, 


Hence your music take, 


Let your silvery laughter 


ye voices gone ! 


Echo yet once more ; 


This lonely heart ye make 


While the joyous bounding 


But more deeply lone. 


Of your dewy feet 




Rings to that old chorus — 


■ 


" The daisy is so sweet ! " 1 






BY A MOUNTAIN-STREAM AT REST. 


Oberon ! Titania ! 




Did your starlight mirtb 


By a mountain-stream at rest, 


With the song of Avon 


We found the warrior lying, 


Quit this work-day earth ? 


And around his noble breast 


Yet, while green leaves glisten, 


A banner clasp'd in dying : 


And while bright stars burn, 


Dark and still 


By that magic memory, 


Was every hill, 


Oh ! return, return ! 


And the winds of night were sighing. 





Last of his noble race, 


THE ROCK BESIDE THE SEA. 


To a lonely bed we bore him — 
'Twas a green, still, solemn place, 


Oh ! tell me not the woods are fair 


Where the mountain-heath waves o'er him : 


Now Spring is on her way ! 


Woods alone 


Well, well I know how brightly there 


Seem to moan, 


In joy the young leaves play; 


Wild streams to deplore him. 


How sweet on winds of morn or eve 




The violet's breath may be ; — 


Yet, from festive hall and lay 


Yet ask me, woo me not to leave 


Our sad thoughts oft are flying 


My lone rock by the sea. 


To those dark hills far away, 




Where in death we found him lying ; 


The wild wave's thunder on the shore, 


On his breast 


The curlew's restless cries, 


A banner press'd, 


Unto my watching heart are more 


And the night-wind o'er him sighing. 


Than all earth's melodies. 




Come back, my ocean rover ! come ! 





There's but one place for me, 




Till I can greet thy swift sail home- 


IS THERE SOME SPIRIT SIGHING? 


My lone rock by the sea ! 






Is there some Spirit sighing 





With sorrow in the air? 


YE VOICES GONE ! 


Can weary hearts be dying, 
Vain love repining there ? 


ye voices gone ! 


If not, then how can that wild wail, 


Sounds of other years ! 


sad iEolian lyre ! 


Hush that haunting tone, 


Be drawn forth by the wandering gale 


Melt me not to tears ! 


From thy deep thrilling wire ? 


All around forget, 




All who loved you well ; 


No, no ! — thou dost not borrow 


Yet, sweet voices ! yet 


That sadness from the wind, 


O'er my soul ye swell. 


Nor are those tones of sorrow 


1 See the fairies' chorus in Chaucer's " Flower and the Leaf." 


In thee, harp ! enshrined ; 



MISCELLANEOUS LYRICS. 



567 



But in our own hearts deeply set 
Lies the true quivering lyre, 

"Whence love, and memory, and regret 
Wake answers from thy wire. 



THE NAME OF ENGLAND. 

The trumpet of the battle 

Hath a high and thrilling tone ; 

And the first, deep gun of an ocean-fight 
Dread music all its own. 

But a mightier power, my England ! 

Is in that name of thine, 
To strike the fire from every heart 

Along the banner'd line. 

Proudly it woke the spirits 

Of yore, the brave and true, 
When the bow was bent on Cressy's field, 

And the yeoman's arrow flew. 

And proudly hath it floated 

Through the battles of the sea, [play'd 
"When the red-cross flag o'er smoke-wreaths 

Like the lightning in its glee. 

On rock, on wave, on bastion, 

Its echoes have been known ; 
By a thousand streams the hearts lie low 

That have answer'd to its tone. 

A thousand ancient mountains 

Its pealing note hath stirr'd, — 
Sound on, and on, for evermore, 

thou victorious word ! 



OLD NORWAY. 



A MOUNTAIN WAR-SONG. 



[" To a Norwegian, the words GamU Norge" (Old Norway) 
have a spell in them immediate and powerful ; they cannot 
be resisted. GamU Norge" is heard, in an instant, repeated 
by every voice ; the glasses are filled, raised, and drained — 
not a drop is left ; and then bursts forth the simultaneous 
chorus * For Norgi /' the national song of Norway. Here, 
(at Christiansand,) and in a hundred other instances in 
Norway, I have seen the character of a company entirely 
changed by the chance introduction of the expression GamU 
Norgi. The gravest discussion is instantly interrupted ; and 



one might suppose for the moment that the party was a party 
of patriots, assembled to commemorate some national anni- 
versary of freedom." — Derwent Conway's Personal Nar- 
rative of a Journey through Norway and Sweden. 

The following words have been published, as arranged to the 
spirited national air of Norway, by Charles Graves, Esq.] 

Arise ! Old Norway sends the word 

Of battle on the blast ; 
Her voice the forest pines hath stirr'd, 

As if a storm went past ; 
Her thousand hills the call have heard, 

And forth their fire-flags cast. 

Arm, arm, free hunters ! for the chase, 

The kingly chase of foes ! 
'Tis not the bear or wild wolf's race 

Whose trampling shakes the snows : 
Arm, arm ! 'tis on a nobler trace 

The northern spearman goes. 

Our hills have dark and strong defiles, 

With many an icy bed ; 
Heap there the rocks for funeral piles 

Above the invader's head ! 
Or let the seas, that guard our isles, 

Give burial to his dead ! 



COME TO ME, GENTLE SLEEP! 

[" Mrs Hemans writes for all tastes and for all ages, as 
well as for all nations, and therefore she may do well to write 
in all sorts of style and manner. And, at all events, she who 
pleases others so well, may be allowed at times to please her- 
self. Such strains as the following might soothe the ear of 
Rhadamanthus, and charm Cerberus to slumber."— Eclectic 
Review, 1834.] 

Come to me, gentle Sleep ! 

I pine, I pine for thee ; 
Come with thy spells, the soft, the deep, 

And set my spirit free ! 
Each lonely, burning thought 

In twilight languor steep — 
Come to the full heart, long o'erwrought, 

gentle, gentle Sleep ! 

Come with thine urn of dew, 

Sleep, gentle Sleep ! yet bring 
No voice, love's yearning to renew, 

No vision on thy wing ! 
Come, as to folding flowers, 

To birds in forests deep — 
Long, dark, and dreamless be thine hours, 

gentle, gentle Sleep ! 



568 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE, 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ESQ., 

IN TOKEN OF DEEP RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND FERVENT GRATITUDE 

FOR MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL BENEFIT DERIVED FROM REVERENTIAL COMMUNION WITH THE SPIRIT 

OF HIS POETRY, THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY 

FELICIA HEMANS.i 

Preface.— I trust I shall not be accused of presumption for the endeavour which I have here made to enlarge, in 
some degree, the sphere of religious poetry, by associating with its themes more of the emotions, the affections, and even the 
purer imaginative enjoyments of daily life, than may have been hitherto admitted within the hallowed circle. 

It has been my wish to portray the religious spirit, not alone in its meditative joys and solitary aspirations, (the poetic 
embodying of which seems to require from the reader a state of mind already separated and exalted,) but likewise in those 
active influences upon human life, so often called into victorious energy by trial and conflict, though too often also, like the 
upward-striving flame of a mountain watch-fire, borne down by tempest- showers, or swayed by the current of opposing winds. 

I have sought to represent that spirit as penetrating the gloom of the prison and the deathbed, bearing " healing on its 
wings " to the agony of parting love— strengthening the heart of the wayfarer for " perils in the wilderness "—gladdening the 
domestic walk through field and woodland— and springing to life in the soul of childhood, along with its earliest rejoicing per- 
ceptions of natural beauty. 

Circumstances not altogether under my own control have, for the present, interfered to prevent the fuller develop- 
ment of a plan which I yet hope more worthily to mature ; and I lay this little volume before the public with that deep 
sense of deficiency which cannot be more impressively taught to human powers than by their reverential application to 
things divine. — Felicia Hemans. 1834. 



THE ENGLISH MARTYRS; 

A SCENE OF THE DAYS OF QUEEN MARY. 

" Thy face 
Is all at once spread over with a calm 
More beautiful than sleep, or mirth, or joy ! 
I am no more disconsolate." Wilson. 

Scene I. — A Prison. 

Edith alone. 

Edith. Morn once again ! Morn in the lone, dim 
The cavern of the prisoner's fever-dream ; [cell, 

[ x The long-contemplated collection of Scenes and Hymns 
of Life was published soon after the two little volumes above 
alluded to. In her original dedication of this work to Mr 
Wordsworth, Mrs Hemans had given free scope to the ex- 
pression of her sentiments, not only of veneration for the 
poet, but of deep and grateful regard for the friend. From 
a fear, however, that delicacy on Mr Wordsworth's part 
might prevent his wishing to receive, in a public form, a 
testimonial of so much private feeling from a living individual, 
the intended letter was suppressed, and its substantial ideas 
conveyed in the brief inscription which was finally prefixed 
to the volume. It is now hoped that all such objections to 
its publication have vanished, and that the revered friend to 
whom it was addressed will receive it as the heart- tribute of 



And morn on all the green, rejoicing hills, 
And the bright waters round the prisoner's home, 
Far, far away ! Now wakes the early bird, 
That in the lime's transparent foliage sings, 
Close to my cottage-lattice — he awakes, 
To stir the young leaves with his gushing soul, 
And to call forth rich answers of delight 
From voices buried in a thousand trees 
Through the dim, starry hours. Now doth the lake 
Darken and flash in rapid interchange 
Unto the matin breeze ; and the blue mist 
Rolls, like a furling banner, from the brows 
Of the forth-gleaming hills and woods that rise 



one to whom flattery was unknown — as consecrated by the 
solemn truth of a voice from the grave. 

Intended Dedication of the " Scenes and Hymns of Life," 
to William Wordsworth, Esq. 

' '■ My dear Sir, 

"I earnestly wish that the little volume here in- 
scribed to you, in token of affectionate veneration, were per- 
vaded by more numerous traces of those strengthening and 
elevating influences which breathe from all your poetry ' a 
power to virtue friendly.' I wish, too, that such a token 
could more adequately convey my deep sense of gratitude for 
moral and intellectual benefit long derived from the study of 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



569 



As if new-born. Bright world ! and I am here ! 
And thou, thou ! the awakening thought of whom 
Was more than dayspring, dearer than the sun, 
Herbert ! the very glance of whose clear eye 
Made my soul melt away to one pure fount 
Of living, bounding gladness ! — where art thou 1 
My friend ! my only and my blessed love ! 
Herbert, my soul's companion ! 

Gomez, a Spanish Priest, enters. 

Gom. Daughter, hail ! 
I bring thee tidings. 

Ed. Heaven will aid my soul 
Calmly to meet whate'er thy lips announce. 

Gom. Nay, lift a song of thanksgiving to heaven, 
And bow thy knee down for deliverance won ! 
Hast thou not pray'd for life? and wouldst thou not 
Once more be free ! 

Ed. Have I not pray'd for life ? 
I, that am so beloved ! that love again [know'st 
With such a heart of tendrils ? Heaven ! thou 
The gushings of my prayer ! And would I not 
Once more be free ? I that have been a child 
Of breezy hills, a playmate of the fawn 
In ancient woodlands from mine infancy ! 
A watcher of the clouds and of the stars, 
Beneath the adoring silence of the night ; 
And a glad wanderer with the happy streams, 
Whose laughter fills the mountains ! Oh ! to hear 
Their blessed sounds again ! 

Gom. Kejoice, rejoice ! 
Our queen hath pity, maiden ! on thy youth ; 
She wills not thou shouldst perish. I am come 
To loose thy bonds. 

Ed. And shall I see his face, 
And shall I listen to his voice again, 
And lay my head upon his faithful breast, 
Weeping there in my gladness 1 Will this be ? 
Blessings upon thee, father ! my quick heart 
Hath deem'd thee stern — say, wilt thou not forgive 
The wayward child, too long in sunshine rear'd — 



that poetry— for the perpetual fountains of ' serious faith and 
inward glee ' which I have never failed to discover amidst its 
pure and lofty regions— for the fresh green places of refuge 
which it has offered me in many an hour, when 

' The fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world 
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart ;' 

and when I have found in your thoughts and images such 
relief as the vision of your ' Sylvan Wye ' may, at similar 
times, have afforded to yourself. 

"May I be permitted, on the present occasion, to record 
my unfading recollections of enjoyment from your society — 
of delight in having heard from your own lips, and amidst 



Too long unused to chastening 1 Wilt thou not 1 
But Herbert, Herbert ! Oh, my soul hath rush'd 
On a swift gust of sudden joy away, 
Forgetting all beside ! Speak, father ! speak ! 
Herbert — is he, too, free ? 

Gom. His freedom lies 
In his own choice — a boon like thine. 

Ed. Thy words 
Fall changed and cold upon my boding heart. 
Leave not this dim suspense o'ershadowing me ; 
Let all be told. 

Gom. The monarchs of the earth 
Shower not their mighty gifts without a claim 
Unto some token of true vassalage, 
Some mark of homage. 

Ed. Oh ! unlike to Him 
Who freely pours the joy of sunshine forth, 
And the bright, quickening rain, on those who serve 
And those who heed Him not ! 

Gom. (laying a paper before her.) Is it so much 
That thine own hand should set the crowning seal 
To thy deliverance ? Look, thy task is here ! 
Sign but these words for liberty and life. 

Ed. {examining and then throwing it from her.) 
Sign but these words ! and wherefore saidst thounot 
— "Be but a traitor to God's light within?-" 
Cruel, oh cruel ! thy dark sport hath been 
With a young bosom's hope ! Farewell, glad life ! 
Bright opening path to love and home, farewell ! 
And thou — now leave me with my God alone ! 

Gom. Dost thou reject heaven's mercy? 

Ed. Heaven's ! doth heaven 
Woo the free spirit for dishonour'd breath 
To sell its birthright ? — doth heaven set a price 
On the clear jewel of unsullied faith, 
And the bright calm of conscience ? Priest, away ! 
God hath been with me midst the holiness 
Of England's mountains. Not in sport alone [up 
I trod their heath-flowers; but high thoughts rose 
From the broad shadow of the enduring rocks, 
And wander'd with me into solemn glens, 



your own lovely mountain-land, many of those compositions, 
the remembrance of which will ever spread over its hills and 
waters a softer colouring of spiritual beauty ? Let me also 
express to you, as to a dear and most honoured friend, my 
fervent wishes for your long enjoyment of a widely-extended 
influence, which cannot but be blessed — of a domestic life, 
encircling you with yet nearer and deeper sources of happi- 
ness ; and of those eternal hopes, on whose foundation you 
have built, as a Christian poet, the noble structure of your 
works. 

" I rely upon your kindness, my dear Sir, for an indulgent 
reception of my offering, however lowly, since you will feel 
assured of the sincerity with which it is presented by your 
ever grateful and affectionate Felicia Remans."] 



570 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



Where my soul felt the beauty of His word. 
I have heard voices of immortal truth, 
Blent with the everlasting torrent-sounds 
That make the deep hills tremble. — Shall I quail? 
Shall England's daughter sink? No! He who there 
Spoke to my heart in silence and in storm, 
Will not forsake His child ! 

Gom. {turning from her) Then perish ! lost 
In thine own blindness ! 

Ed. {suddenly throwing herself at his feet.) 
Father ! hear me yet ! 
Oh ! if the kindly touch of human love 
Hath ever warm'd thy breast 

Gom. Away — away ! 
I know not love. 

Ed. Yet hear ! if thou hast known 
The tender sweetness of a mother's voice — 
If the true vigil of affection's eye 
Hath watch'd thy childhood — if fond tears have e'er 
Been shower'd upon thy head — if parting words 
E'er pierced thy spirit with their tenderness — 
Let me but look upon his face once more, 
Let me but say — Farewell, my soul's beloved ! 
And I will bless thee still ! 

Gom. {aside.) Her soul may yield, 
Beholding him in fetters ; woman's faith 
Will bend to woman's love. 

Thy prayer is heard ; 
Follow, and I will guide thee to his cell. 

Ed. stormy hour of agony and joy ! 
But I shall see him — I shall hear his voice ! 

[They go out. 



Scene II. — Another part of the Prison. 
Herbert, Edith. 

Ed. Herbert ! my Herbert ! is it thus we meet 1 ? 

Her. The voice of my own Edith ! Can such joy 
Light up this place of death ! And do I feel 
Thy breath of love once more upon my cheek, 
And the soft floating of thy gleamy hair, 
My blessed Edith 1 Oh, so pale ! so changed ! 
My flower, my blighted flower ! thou that wert made 
For the kind fostering of sweet, summer airs, 
How hath the storm been with thee ] Lay thy head 
On this true breast again, my gentle one ! 
And tell me all. 

Ed. Yes ! take me to thy heart, 
For I am weary, weary ! Oh ! that heart ! 
The kind, the brave, the tender ! — how my soul 
Hath sicken'd in vain yearnings for the balm 
Of rest on that warm heart ! — full, deep repose ! 
One draught of dewy stillness after storm ! 



And God hath pitied me, and I am here — 
Yet once before I die. 

Her. They cannot slay 
One young, and meek, and beautiful as thou, 
My broken lily ! Surely the long days 
Of the dark cell have been enough for thee ! 
Oh ! thou shalt live, and raise thy gracious head 
Yet in calm sunshine. 

Ed. Herbert ! I have cast 
The snare of proferr'd mercy from my soul, 
This very hour. God to the weak hath given 
Victory o'er life and death. The tempter's price 
Hath been rejected— Herbert, I must die. 

Her. Edith ! Edith ! I, that led thee first 
From the old path wherein thy fathers trod — 
I, that received it as an angel's task, 
To pour the fresh light on thine ardent soul, 
Which drank it as a sunflower — / have been 
Thy guide to death. 

Ed. To heaven ! my guide to heaven, 
My noble and my blessed ! Oh ! look up, 
Be strong, rejoice, my Herbert ! But for thee, 
How could my spirit have sprung up to God 
Through the dark cloud which o'er its vision hung, 
The night of fear and error 1 — thy dear hand 
First raised that veil, and show'd the glorious world 
My heritage beyond. Friend ! love, and friend ! 
It was as if thou gavest me mine own soul 
In those bright days ! Yes ! a new earth and heaven, 
And a new sense for all their splendours born — ■ 
These were thy gifts ; and shall I not rejoice 
To die, upholding their immortal worth, 
Even for thy sake 1 Yes ! fill'd with nobler life 
By thy pure love, made holy to the truth, 
Lay me upon the altar of thy God, 
The first fruits of thy ministry below — 
Thy work, thine own ! 

Her. My love, my sainted love ! 
Oh ! I can almost yield thee unto heaven ; 
Earth would but sully thee ! Thou must depart, 
With the rich crown of thy celestial gifts 
Untainted by a breath. And yet, alas ! 
Edith ! what dreams of holy happiness, [home, 
Even for this world, were ours ! — the low sweet 
The pastoral dwelling, with its ivied porch, 
And lattice gleaming through the leaves — and thou 
My life's companion ! Thou, beside my hearth, 
Sitting with thy meek eyes, or greeting me 
Back from brief absence with thy bounding step, 
In the green meadow-path, or by my side 
Kneeling — thy calm uplifted face to mine, 
In the sweet hush of prayer ! And now — oh, now ! — 
How have we loved — how fervently ! how long ! 
And this to be the close ! 



SCENES AND HYMN'S OF LIFE. 



571 



Ed. Oh ! bear me up 
Against the unutterable tenderness 
Of earthly love, my God !— in the sick hour 
Of dying human hope, forsake me not ! 
Herbert, my Herbert ! even from that sweet home 
Where it had been too much of Paradise [hand 
To dwell with thee — even thence the oppressor's 
Might soon have torn us ; or the touch of death 
Might one day there have left a widow'd heart, 
Pining alone. We will go hence, beloved ! 
To the bright country where the wicked cease 
From troubling, where the spoiler hath no sway; 
Where no harsh voice of worldliness disturbs 
The Sabbath-peace of love. We will go hence, 
Together with our wedded souls, to heaven : 
No solitary lingering, no cold void, 
No dying of the heart ! Our lives have been 
Lovely through faithful love, and in our deaths 
We will not be divided. 

Her. Oh ! the peace 
Of God is lying far within thine eyes, 
Far underneath the mist of human tears 
Lightingthose blue, still depths, and sinkingthence 
On my worn heart. Now am I girt with strength, 
Now I can bless thee, my true bride for heaven ! 
Ed. And let me bless thee, Herbert ! — in this hour 
Let my soul bless thee with prevailing might ! 
Oh ! thou hast loved me nobly ! thou didst take 
An orphan to thy heart — a thing unprized 
And desolate ; and thou didst guard her there, 
That lone and lowly creature, as a pearl 
Of richest price ; and thou didst fill her soul 
With the high gifts of an immortal wealth. 
I bless, I bless thee ! Never did thine eye 
Look on me but in glistening tenderness, 
My gentle Herbert ! Never did thy voice 
But in affection's deepest music speak 
To thy poor Edith ! Never was thy heart 
Aught but the kindliest sheltering home to mine, 
My faithful, generous Herbert ! Woman's peace 
Ne'er on a breast so tender and so true 
Eeposed before. Alas ! thy showering tears 
Fall fast upon my cheek — forgive, forgive ! 
I should not melt thy noble strength away 
In such an hour. 

Her. Sweet Edith, no ! my heart 
Will fail no more. God bears me up through thee, 
And by thy words, and by thy heavenly light 
Shining around thee, through thy very tears, 
Will yet sustain me ! Let us call on Him ! 
Let us kneel down, as we have knelt so oft, 
Thy pure cheek touching mine, and call on Him, 
Th' all-pitying One, to aid. 

[They Icneel. 



Oh, look on us, 
Father above ! — in tender mercy look [cloud 

On us, thy children ! — through th' o'ershadowing 
Of sorrow and mortality, send aid — 
Save, or we perish ! We would pour our lives 
Forth as a joyous offering to thy truth ; 
But we are weak — we, the bruised reeds of earth, 
Are sway'd by every gust. Forgive, God ! 
The blindness of our passionate desires, 
The fainting of our hearts, the lingering thoughts 
Which cleave to dust ! Forgive the strife ; accept 
The sacrifice, though dim with mortal tears, 
From mortal pangs wrung forth ! And if our souls, 
In all the fervent dreams, the fond excess, 
Of their long-clasping love, have wander'd not, 
Holiest ! from thee — oh ! take them to thyself, 
After the fiery trial — take them home 
To dwell, in that imperishable bond 
Before thee link'd, for ever. Hear! — thro' Him 
Who meekly drank the cup of agony, 
Who pass'd through death to victory, hear and save! 
Pity us, Father ! we are girt with snares : 
Father in Heaven ! we have no help but thee. 

[They rise. 
Is thy soul strengthened, my beloved one ] 
Edith ! couldst thou lift up thy sweet voice, 
And sing me that old solemn-breathing hymn 
We loved in happier days — the strain which tells 
Of the dread conflict in the olive shade 1 

Edith sings. 

He knelt, the Saviour knelt and pray'd, 

When but his Father's eye 
Look'd through the lonely garden's shade 

On that dread agony ; 
The Lord of all above, beneath, 
Was bow'd with sorrow unto death. 

The sun set in a fearful hour, 

The stars might well grow dim, 
When this mortality had power 

So to o'ershadow Him ! 
That He who gave man's breath, might know 
The very depths of human woe. 

He proved them all ! — the doubt, the strife, 

The faint perplexing dread, 
The mists that hang o'er parting life, 

All gather'd round his head ; 
And the Deliverer knelt to pray- 
Yet pass'd it not, that cup, away ! 

It pass'd not — though the stormy wave 
Had sunk beneath his tread : 



572 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



It pass'd not — though to Him the grave 

Had yielded up its dead. 
But there was sent him from on High 
A gift of strength for man to die. 

And was the Sinless thus beset 

With anguish and dismay 1 
How may we meet our conflict yet, 

In the dark, narrow way 1 
Through Him — through Him that path who trod. 
— Save, or we perish, Son of God ! 

Hark, hark ! the parting signal. 

[Prison attendants enter. 
Fare thee well ! 
O thou unutterably loved, farewell ! 
Let our hearts bow to God ! 
Her. One last embrace — 
On earth the last ! We have eternity 
For love's communion yet ! Farewell !— farewell ! 

[She is led out. 
Tis o'er ! — the bitterness of death is past ! 



FLOWEES AND MUSIC IN A ROOM OF 

SICKNESS. 

" Once when I look'd along the laughing earth, 
Up the blue heavens and through the middle air, 
Joyfully ringing with the skylark's song, 
I wept ! and thought how sad for one so young 
To bid farewell to so much happiness. 
But Christ hath calPd me from this lower world, 
Delightful though it be." Wilson. 

Apartment in an English country-house. — Lilian 
reclining, as sleeping on a couch. Her mother 
watching beside her. Her sister enters with 
flowers. 

Mother. Hush ! lightly tread ! Still tranquilly 

she sleeps, 
As when a babe I rock'd her on my heart. 
I've watch' d, suspending e'en my breath, in fear 
To break the heavenly spell. Move silently ! 
And oh ! those flowers ! Dear Jessy ! bear them 

hence — 
Dost thou forget the passion of quick tears 
That shook her trembling frame, when last we 

brought 
The roses to her couch ? Dost thou not know 
What sudden longings for the woods and hills, 
Where once her free steps moved so buoyantly, 
These leaves and odours with strange influence wake 
In her fast-kindled soul % 
Jessy. Oh ! she would pine, 



Were the wild scents and glowing hues withheld, 
Mother ! far more than now her spirit yearns 
For the blue sky, the singing birds and brooks, 
And swell of breathing turf, whose lightsome spring 
Their blooms recall. 

Lilian, (raising herself.) Is that my Jessy's voice 1 
It woke me not, sweet mother ! I had lain 
Silently, visited by waking dreams, 
Yet conscious of thy brooding watchfulness, 
Long ere I heard the sound. Hath she brought 

flowers 1 
Nay, fear not now thy fond child's waywardness, 
My thoughtful mother ! — in her chasten'd soul 
The passion-colour'd images of life, 
Which, with their sudden, startling flush, awoke 
So oft those burning tears, have died away ; 
And night is there — still, solemn, holy night ! 
With all her stars, and with the gentle tune 
Of many fountains, low and musical, 
By day unheard. 

Mother. And wherefore night, my child ? 
Thou art a creature all of life and dawn, 
And from thy couch of sickness yet shalt rise, 
And walk forth with the dayspring. 

Lilian. Hope it not ! 
Dream it no more, my mother ! — there are things 
Known but to God, and to the parting soul, 
Which feels His thrilling summons. 

But my words 
Too much o'ershadow those kind, loving eyes. 
Bring me thy flowers, dear Jessy ! Ah ! thy step, 
Well do I see, hath not alone explored 
The garden bowers, but freely visited 
Our wilder haunts. This foam-like meadow-sweet 
Is from the cool, green, shadowy river-nook, 
Where the stream chimes around th' old mossy 

stones 
With sounds like childhood's laughter. Is that spot 
Lovely as when our glad eyes hail'd it first 1 
Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep 
The clear brown wave with every passing wind 1 
And through the shallower waters, where they lie 
Dimpling in light, do the vein'd pebbles gleam 
Like bedded gems 1 And the white butterflies, 
From shade to sun-streak are they glancing still 
Among the poplar-boughs 1 

Jessy. All, all is there [bring ; 

Which glad midsummer's wealthiest hours can 
All, save the soul of all, thy lightning-smile ! 
Therefore I stood in sadness midst the leaves, 
And caught an under-music of lament 
In the stream's voice. But Nature waits thee still, 
And for thy coming piles a fairy throne 
Of richest moss. 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



573 



Lilian. Alas ! it may not be ! 
My soul hath sent her farewell voicelessly 
To all these blessed haunts of song and thought ; 
Yet not the less I love to look on these, 
Their dear memorials, — strew them o'er my couch 
Till it grow like a forest-bank in spring, 
All flush' d with violets and anemones. 
Ah ! the pale brier-rose ! touch'd so tenderly, 
As a pure ocean-shell, with faintest red, 
Melting away to pearliness ! I know 
How its long, light festoons o'erarching hung 
From the gray rock that rises altar-like, 
With its high, waving crown of mountain-ash, 
Midst the lone grassy dell. And this rich bough 
Of honey'd woodbine tells me of the oak, 
"Whose deep, midsummer gloom sleeps heavily, 
Shedding a verdurous twilight o'er the face 
Of the glade's pool. Methinks I see it now ; 
I look up through the stirring of its leaves 
Unto the intense blue, crystal firmament. 
The ringdove's wing is flitting o'er my head, 
Casting at times a silvery shadow down 
Midst the large water-lilies. Beautiful ! 
How beautiful is all this fair, free world 
Under God's open sky ! 

Mother. Thou art o'erwrought 
Once more, my child ! The dewy, trembling light 
Presaging tears, again is in thine eye. 
Oh, hush, dear Lilian ! turn thee to repose. 

Lilian. Mother ! I cannot. In my soul the 
thoughts 
Burn with too subtle and too swift a fire ; 
Importunately to my lips they throng, 
And with their earthly kindred seek to blend 
Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone — 
(For I must go) — then the remember'd words 
Wherein these wild imaginings flow forth, 
Will to thy fond heart be as amulets 
Held there,with life and love. And weep not thus, 
Mother ! dear sister !— kindest, gentlest ones ! 
Be comforted that now 2" weep no more 
For the glad earth and all the golden light 
Whence I depart. 

No ! God hath purified my spirit's eye, 
And in the folds of this consummate rose 
I read bright prophecies. I see not there, 
Dimly and mournfully, the word "farewell" 
On the rich petals traced. No — in soft veins 
And characters of beauty, I can read — 
" Look up, look heavenward!" 

Blessed God of Love ! 
I thank Thee for these gifts, the precious links 
"Whereby my spirit unto Thee is drawn ! 
I thank Thee that the loveliness of earth 



Higher than earth can raise me ! Are not these 

But germs of things unperishing, that bloom 

Beside th' immortal streams 1 Shall I not find 

The lily of the field, the Saviour's flower, 

In the serene and never-moaning air, 

And the clear starry light of angel eyes, 

A thousand-fold more glorious 1 Bicher far 

Will not the violet's dusky purple glow, 

When it hath ne'er been press'd to broken hearts, 

A record of lost love ] 

Mother. My Lilian ! thou 
Surely in thy bright life hast little known 
Of lost things or of changed ! 

Lilian. Oh ! little yet, 
For thou hast been my shield ! But had it been 
My lot on this world's billows to be thrown 
Without thy love, mother ! there are hearts 
So perilously fashion' d, that for them 
God's touch alone hath gentleness enough 
To waken, and not break, their thrilling strings ! — 
We will not speak of this ! 

By what strange spell 
Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers, 
I dream of music ] Something in their hues, 
All melting into colour'd harmonies, 
Wafts a swift thought of interwoven chords, 
Of blended singing-tones, that swell and die 
In tenderest falls away. Oh, bring thy harp, 
Sister ! A gentle heaviness at last 
Hath touch'd mine eyelids : sing to me, and sleep 
Will come again. [peasant's lay, 

Jessy. What wouldst thou hear? — the Italian 
Which makes the desolate Campagna ring 
With "Roma/ Roma!" or the madrigal 
Warbled on moonlight seas of Sicily ? 
Or the old ditty left by troubadours 
To girls of Languedoc ] 

Lilian. Oh, no ! not these. [known 

Jessy. What then? — the Moorish melody still 
Within the Alhambra city] or those notes 
Born of the Alps, which pierce the exile's heart 
Even unto death ] 

Lilian. No, sister ! nor yet these — 
Too much of dreamy love, of faint regret, 
Of passionately fond remembrance, breathes 
In the caressing sweetness of their tones, 
For one who dies. They would but woo me back 
To glowing life with those Arcadian sounds — 
And vainly, vainly. No ! a loftier strain, 
A deeper music ! — something that may bear 
The spirit upon slow yet mighty wings, 
Unsway'd by gusts of earth ; something all fill'd 
With solemn adoration, tearful prayer. 
Sing me that antique strain which once I deem'd 



574 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



Almost too sternly simple, too austere 

In its grave majesty ! I love it now — 

Now it seems fraught with holiest power to hush 

All billows of the soul, e'en like His voice 

That said of old — " Be still !" Sing me that strain, 

" The Saviour's dying hour." 

Jessy sings to the Harp. 

Son of Man ! 
In thy last mortal hour 
Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully ! 
All that on us is laid, 
All the deep gloom, 
The desolation and the abandonment, 
The dark amaze of death — 
All upon thee too fell, 
Redeemer ! Son of Man ! 

But the keen pang 
Wherewith the silver cord 
Of earth's affection from the soul is wrung ; 
The uptearing of those tendrils which have grown 
Into the quick, strong heart ; 
This, this— the passion and the agony 
Of battling love and death, 
Surely was not for thee, 
Holy One ! Son of God ! 

Yes, my Redeemer ! 
E'en this cup was thine ! 
Fond, wailing voices call'd thy spirit back : 
E'en midst the mighty thoughts 
Of that last crowning hour — 
E'en on thine awful way to victory, 
Wildly they call'd thee back ! 
And weeping eyes of love 
Unto thy heart's deep core 
Pierced through the folds of death's mysterious veil. 
Suffer ! thou Son of Man I 

Mother-tears were mingled 

With thy costly blood-drops, 
In the shadow of the atoning cross ; 

And the friend, the faithful, 

He that on thy bosom 
Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lain — 

He, a pale sad watcher, 

Met with looks of anguish 
All the anguish in thy last meek glance — 

Dying Son of Man ! 

Oh ! therefore unto thee, 
Thou that hast known all woes 
Bound in the girdle of mortality ! 



Thou that wilt lift the reed 
Which storms have bruised, 
To thee may sorrow through each conflict cry, 
And, in that tempest-hour, when love and life 
Mysteriously must part, 

When tearful eyes 
Are passionately bent 
To drink earth's last fond meaning from our gaze, 
Then, then forsake us not ! 
Shed on our spirits .then 
The faith and deep submissiveness of thine ! 
Thou that didst love 
Thou that didst weep and die — 
Thou that didst rise a victor glorified ; 
Conqueror ! thou Son of God ! 



CATHEDRAL HYMN. 

" They dreamt not of a perishable home 
Who thus could huild. Be mine in honrs of fear 
Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here." 

Wordsworth. 



A dim and mighty minster of old time ! 

A temple shadowy with remembrances 

Of the majestic past ! The very light 

Streams with a colouring of heroic days 

In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle 

A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back 

To other years ! — and the rich fretted roof, 

And the wrought coronals of summer leaves, 

Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose — 

The tenderest image of mortality — 

Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts 

Cluster like stems in corn-sheaves ; — all these things 

Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly, 

On their heart's worship pour'd a wealth of love ! 

Honour be with the dead ! The people kneel 

Under the helms of antique chivalry, 

And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown, 

And midst the forms, in pale, proud slumber carved, 

Of warriors on their tombs. The people kneel 

Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt ; where jewell'd 

crowns 
On the flush'd brows of conquerors have been set; 
Where the high anthems of old victories 
Have made the dust give echoes. Hence, vain 

thoughts ! 
Memories of power and pride, which long ago, 
Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk 
In twilight-depths away. Return, my soul ! 
The Cross recalls thee. Lo ! the blessed Cross ! 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



575 



High o'er the banners and the crests of earth, 
Fix'd in its meek and still supremacy ! 
And lo ! the throng of beating human hearts, 
With all their secret scrolls of buried grief, 
All their full treasures of immortal hope, 
Gather'd before their God ! Hark ! how the flood 
Of the rich organ-harmony bears up 
Their voice on its high waves ! — a mighty burst ! 
A forest-sounding music ! Every tone [wings 

Which the blasts call forth with their harping 
From gulfs of tossing foliage, there is blent : 
And the old minster — forest-like itself — 
With its long avenues of pillar'd shade, 
Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain 
O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not 
One tomb unthrill'd by the strong sympathy 
Answering the electric notes. Join, join, my soul! 
In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness, 
And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn. 

Eise like an altar-fire ! 

In solemn joy aspire, 
Deepening thy passion still, choral strain ! 

On thy strong rushing wind 

Bear up from humankind 
Thanks and implorings — be they not in vain ! 

Father, which art on high ! 

Weak is the melody 
Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear, 

Unless the heart be there, 

Winging the words of prayer 
With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear. 

Let, then, thy Spirit brood 

Over the multitude — 
Be thou amidst them, thro' that heavenly Guest ! 

So shall their cry have power 

To win from thee a shower 
Of healing gifts for every wounded breast. 

What griefs that make no sign, 

That ask no aid but thine, 
Father of mercies ! here before thee swell ! 

As to the open sky, 

All their dark waters lie 
To thee reveal' d, in each close bosom-cell. 

The sorrow for the dead, 

Mantling its lonely head 
From the world's glare, is, in thy sight, set free ; 

And the fond, aching love, 

Thy minister to move 
All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee. 



And doth not thy dread eye 

Behold the agony 
In that most hidden chamber of the heart, 

Where darkly sits remorse, 

Beside the secret source 
Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart ] 

Yes ! here before thy throne 

Many — yet each alone — 
To thee that terrible unveiling make : 

And still, small whispers clear 

Are startling many an ear, 
As if a trumpet bade the dead awake. 

How dreadful is this place ! 

The glory of thy face 
Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight. 

Where shall the guilty flee 1 

Over what far-off sea 1 [light ] 

What hills, what woods, may shroud him from that 

Not to the cedar-shade 

Let his vain flight be made ; 
Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea ; 

What, but the Cross, can yield 

The hope — the stay — the shield 1 
Thence may the Atoner lead him up to thee ! 

Be thou, be thou his aid ! 

Oh, let thy love pervade 
The haunted caves of self-accusing thought ! 

There let the living stone 

Be cleft — the seed be sown — 
The song of fountains from the silence brought ! 

So shall thy breath once more 

Within the soul restore 
Thine own first image — Holiest and Most High ! 

As a clear lake is fill'd 

With hues of heaven, instill'd 
Down to the depths of its calm purity. 

And if, amidst the throng 

Link'd by the ascending song, [soar ; 

There are whose thoughts in trembling rapture 

Thanks, Father ! that the power 

Of joy, man's early dower, 
Thus, e'en midst tears, can fervently adore ! 

Thanks for each gift divine ! 

Eternal praise be thine, 
Blessing and love, Thou that hearest prayer ! 

Let the hymn pierce the sky, 

And let the tombs reply ! 
For seed, that waits the harvest-time, is there. 



576 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



WOOD WALK AND HYMN. 1 

" Move along these shades 
In gentleness of heart : with gentle hand 
Touch— for there is a spirit in the woods." — Wordsworth. 

Father— Child. 
Child. There are the aspens, with their silvery- 



Trembling, for ever trembling ; though the lime 
And chestnut boughs, and those long arching sprays 
Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood 
Were all one picture ! 

Father. Hast thou heard, my boy, 
The peasant's legend of that quivering tree ? 

Child. No, father : doth he say the fairies dance 
Amidst the branches ? 

Father. Oh ! a cause more deep, 
More solemn far, the rustic doth assign 
To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves ! 
The cross he deems, the blessed cross, whereon 
The meek Redeemer bow'd his head to death, 
Was framed of aspen wood ; and since that hour, 
Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down 
A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe, 
Making them tremulous, when not a breeze 
Disturbs the airy thistle-down, or shakes 
The light lines of the shining gossamer. 

Child, {after a pause.) Dost thou believe it, father] 

Father. Nay, my child, 
We walk in clearer light. But yet, even now, 
With something of a lingering love, I read 
The characters, by that mysterious hour, 
Stamp'd on the reverential soul of man 
In visionary days ; and thence thrown back 
On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign 
Of the great sacrifice which won us heaven, 
The woodman and the mountaineer can trace 
On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so ! 
They do not wisely that, with hurried hand, 
Would pluck these salutary fancies forth 
From their strong soil within the peasant's breast, 
And scatter them — far, far too fast ! — away 
As worthless weeds. Oh ! little do we know 
When they have soothed, when saved ! 

But come, dear boy ! 
My words grow tinged with thought too deep for 
Come — let us search for violets. [thee. 

Child. Know you not 

1 " It is not often we find the superstitions of dark and 
ignorant ages dealt with in so gentle and agreeable a manner 
as by Mrs Hemans. She seizes, in common with others, the 
poetic aspect these present, but diffuses over them, at the 
same time, a refinement of sentiment gathered entirely from 
her own feelings. A subject which, from another pencil, 



More of the legends which the woodmen tell 
Amidst the trees and flowers 1 

Father. Wilt thou know more 1 
Bring then the folding leaf, with dark-brown stains, 
There — by the mossy roots of yon old beech, 
Midst the rich tuft of cowslips — see'st thou not 1 
There is a spray of woodbine from the tree 
Just bending o'er it with a wild bee's weight. 

Child. The Arum leaf] 

Father. Yes. These deep inwrought marks, 
The villager will tell thee, (and with voice 
Lower'd in his true heart's reverent earnestness,) 
Are the flower's portion from th' atoning blood 
On Calvary shed. Beneath the cross it grew ; 
And, in the vase-like hollow of its leaf, 
Catching from that dread shower of agony 
A few mysterious drops, transmitted thus 
Unto the groves and hills, their sealing stains, 
A heritage, for storm or vernal wind 
Never to waft away ! 

And hast thou seen 
The passion-flower 1 It grows not in the woods, 
But midst the bright things brought from other 
climes. [purple streaks, 

Child. What ! the pale star-shaped flower, with 
And light green tendrils 1 

Father. Thou hast mark'd it well. 
Yes ! a pale, starry, dreamy-looking flower, 
As from a land of spirits ! To mine eye 
Those faint, wan petals — colourless, and yet 
Not white, but shadowy — with the mystic lines 
(As letters of some wizard language gone) 
Into their vapour-like transparence wrought, 
Bear something of a strange solemnity, 
Awfully lovely !— and the Christian's thought 
Loves, in their cloudy penciling, to find 
Dread symbols of his Lord's last mortal pangs 
Set by God's hand — the coronal of thorns — 
The cross, the wounds — with other meanings deep 
Which I will teach thee when we meet again 
That flower, the chosen for the martyr's wreath, 
The Saviour's holy flower. 

But let us pause : 
Now have we reach'd the very inmost heart 
Of the old wood. How the green shadows close 
Into a rich, clear, summer darkness round, 
A luxury of gloom ! Scarce doth one ray, 
Even when a soft wind parts the foliage, steal 

would have been disagreeable and offensive to us, is made by 
her graceful touches to win upon our imagination. Witness 
the poem called ' The Wood Walk and Hymn ;' we will 
quote the commencement of it— 

' There are the aspens with their silvery leaves,* " etc. 

Blackwood's Magazine, Dec. 1848. 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



577 



O'er the bronzed pillars of these deep arcades ; 
Or if it doth, 'tis with a mellow'd hue 
Of glow-worm colour'd light. 

Here, in the days 
Of pagan visions, would have been a place [oaks 
For worship of the wood-nymphs ! Through these 
A small, fair gleaming temple might have thrown 
The quivering image of its Dorian shafts 
On the stream's bosom, or a sculptured form, 
Dryad, or fountain-goddess of the gloom, 
Have bow'd its head o'er that dark crystal down, 
Drooping with beauty, as a lily droops 
Under bright rain. But we, my child, are here 
With God, our God, a Spirit, who requires 
Heart- worship, given in spirit and in truth ; 
And this high knowledge — deep, rich, vast enough 
To fill and hallow all the solitude — 
Makes consecrated earth where'er we move, 
Without the aid of shrines. 

What ! dost thou feel 
The solemn whispering influence of the scene 
Oppressing thy young heart, that thou dost draw 
More closely to my side, and clasp my hand 
Faster in thine ? Nay, fear not, gentle child ! 
'Tis love, not fear, whose vernal breath pervades 
The stillness round. Come, sit beside me here, 
Where brooding violets mantle this green slope 
With dark exuberance ; and beneath these plumes 
Of wavy fern, look where the cup-moss holds 
In its pure, crimson goblets, fresh and bright, 
The starry dews of morning. Eest awhile, 
And let me hear once more the woodland verse 
I taught thee late — 'twas made for such a scene. 
Child speaks. 

WOOD HYMN. 

Broods there some spirit here ? 
The summer leaves hang silent as a cloud ; 
And o'er the pools, all still and darkly clear, 
The wild wood-hyacinth with awe seems bow'd; 
And something of a tender cloistral gloom 

Deepens the violet's bloom. 

The very light that streams 
Through the dim, dewy veil of foliage round 
Comes tremulous with emerald-tinted gleams — 
As if it knew the place were holy ground ; 
And would not startle, with too bright a burst, 

Flowers, all divinely nursed. 

Wakes there some spirit here 1 [by ; 

A swift wind, fraught with change, comes rushing 
And leaves and waters, in its wild career, 
Shed forth sweet voices — each a mystery ! 



Surely some awful influence must pervade 
These depths of trembling shade ! 

Yes ! lightly, softly move ! 
There is a power, a presence in the woods ; 
A viewless being that, with life and love, 
Informs the reverential solitudes : 
The rich air knows it, and the mossy sod — 

Thou — thou art here, my God ! 

And if with awe we tread 
The minster-floor, beneath the storied pane, 
And, midst the mouldering banners of the dead, 
Shall the green, voiceful wild seem less thy fane, 
Where thou alone hast built? — where arch and roof 

Are of thy living woof? 

The silence and the sound, 
In the lone places, breathe alike of thee ; 
The temple-twilight of the gloom profound, 
The dew-cup of the frail anemone, 
The reed by every wandering whisper thrill'd — 

All, all with thee are fill'd ! 

Oh ! purify mine eyes, 
More and yet more, by love and lowly thought, 
Thy presence, holiest One ! to recognise 
In these majestic aisles which thou hast wrought 
And, midst their sea-like murmurs, teach mine ear 

Ever thy voice to hear ! 

And sanctify my heart 
To meet the awful sweetness of that tone 
With no faint thrill or self-accusing start, 
But a deep joy the heavenly guest to own — 
Joy, such as dwelt in Eden's glorious bowers 

Ere sin had dimm'd the flowers. 

Let me not know the change 
O'er nature thrown by guilt ! — the boding sky, 
The hollow leaf-sounds ominous and strange, 
The weight wherewith the dark tree-shadows lie ■ 
Father ! oh ! keep my footsteps pure and free, 
To walk the woods with thee ! 



PRAYER OF THE LONELY STUDENT. 

" Soul of our souls ! and safeguard of the world ! 
Sustain — Thou only canst— the sick at heart ; 
Restore their languid spirits, and recall 
Their lost affections unto thee and thine." — Wordsworth. 

Night — holy night — the time 
For mind's free breathings in a purer clime ! 



578 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



Night ! — when in happier hour the unveiling sky 

Woke all my kindled soul 
To meet its revelations, clear and high, 
With the strong joy of immortality ! 
Now hath strange sadness wrapp'd me, strange and 



And my thoughts faint, and shadows o'er them roll, 
E'en when I deem'd them seraph-plumed, to sweep 
Far beyond earth's control. 

Wherefore is this 1 I see the stars returning, 
Fire after fire in heaven's rich temple burning : 
Fast shine they forth — my spirit-friends, my guides, 
Bright rulers of my being's inmost tides ; 
They shine — but faintly, through a quivering haze : 
Oh ! is the dimness mine which clouds those rays'? 
They from whose glance my childhood drank 

delight ! 
A joy unquestioning — a love intense — 
They that, unfolding to more thoughtful sight 
The harmony of their magnificence, 
Drew silently the worship of my youth 
To the grave sweetness on the brow of truth ; 
Shall they shower blessing, with their beams divine, 
Down to the watcher on the stormy sea, 
And to the pilgrim toiling for his shrine 
Through some wild pass of rocky Apennine, 

And to the wanderer lone 

On wastes of Afric thrown, 
And not to me ? 

Am I a thing forsaken 1 

And is the gladness taken 
From the bright-pinion'd nature which hath soar'd 
Through realms by royal eagle ne'er explored, 
And, bathing there in streams of fiery light, 
Found strength to gaze upon the Infinite 1 

And now an alien ! Wherefore must this be 1 
How shall I rend the chain 1 
How drink rich life again 
From those pure urns of radiance, welling free 1 
— Father of Spirits ! let me turn to thee ! 

Oh ! if too much exulting in her dower, 

My soul, not yet to lowly thought subdued, 

Hath stood without thee on her hill of power — 
A fearful and a dazzling solitude ! 

And therefore from that haughty summit's crown 

To dim desertion is by thee cast down ; 

Behold ! thy child submissively hath bow'd — 
Shine on him through the cloud ! 

Let the now darken'd earth and curtain'd heaven 
Back to his vision with thy face be given ! 



Bear him on high once more, 

But in thy strength to soar, 
And wrapt and still'd by that o'ershadowing might, 
Forth on the empyreal blaze to look with chas- 

ten'd sight. 

Or if it be that, like the ark's lone dove, 

My thoughts go forth, and find no resting-place, 

No sheltering home of sympathy and love 

In the responsive bosoms of my race, 

And back return, a darkness and a weight, 

Till my unanswer'd heart grows desolate — 

Yet, yet sustain me, Holiest ! — I am vow'd 

To solemn service high ; 
And shall the spirit, for thy tasks endow'd, 
Sink on the threshold of the sanctuary, 
Fainting beneath the burden of the day, 

Because no human tone 

Unto the altar-stone 
Of that pure spousal fane inviolate, 
Where it should make eternal truth its mate, 
May cheer the sacred, solitary way ? 

Oh ! be the whisper of thy voice within 
Enough to strengthen ! Be the hope to win 
A more deep-seeing homage for thy name, 
Far, far beyond the burning dream of fame ! 
Make me thine only ! — Let me add but one 
To those refulgent steps all undefiled, 

Which glorious minds have piled 
Through bright self-offering, earnest,childlike, lone, 

For mounting to thy throne ! 

And let my soul, upborne 

On wings of inner morn, 
Find, in illumined secrecy, the sense 
Of that bless'd work, its own high recompense. 

The dimness melts away 
That on your glory lay, 
ye majestic watchers of the skies ! 
Through the dissolving veil, 
Which made each aspect pale, 
Your gladdening fires once more I recognise ; 
And once again a shower 
Of hope, and joy, and power, 
Streams on my soul from your immortal eyes. 
And if that splendour to my sober'd sight 
Come tremulous, with more of pensive light — 
Something, though beautiful, yet deeply fraught 
With more that pierces through each fold of thought 
Than I was wont to trace 
On heaven's unshadow'd face — 
Be it e'en so ! — be mine, though set apart 
Unto a radiant ministry, yet still 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



579 



A lowly, fearful, self-distrusting heart, 

Bow'd before thee, Mightiest ! whose bless'd will 

All the pure stars rejoicingly fulfil. 1 



THE TRAVELLER'S EVENING SONG. 

Father ! guide me ! Day declines, 
Hollow winds are in the pines ; 
Darkly waves each giant bough 
O'er the sky's last crimson glow : 
Hush'd is now the convent's bell, 
"Which erewhile with breezy swell 
From the purple mountains bore 
Greeting to the sunset-shore. 
Now the sailor's vesper-hymn 

Dies away. 
Father ! in the forest dim, 

Be my stay ! 

In the low and shivering thrill 
Of the leaves that late hung still ; 
In the dull and muffled tone 
Of the sea-wave's distant moan ; 
In the deep tints of the sky, 
There are signs of tempests nigh. 
Ominous, with sullen sound, 
Falls the closing dusk around. 
Father ! through the storm and shade 

O'er the wild, 
Oh ! be Tfwu the lone one's aid — 

Save thy child ! 

Many a swift and sounding plume 
Homewards, through the boding gloom, 
O'er my way hath flitted fast 
Since the farewell sunbeam pass'd 
From the chestnut's ruddy bark, 
And the pools, now lone and dark, 
Where the wakening night-winds sigh 
Through the long reeds mournfully. 
Homeward, homeward, all things haste — 

God of might ! 
Shield the homeless midst the waste ! 

Be his light ! 

In his distant cradle-nest, 
Now my babe is laid to rest ; 
Beautiful its slumber seems 
"With a glow of heavenly dreams — 

1 Written after hearing the introductory Lecture on 
Astronomy delivered in Trinity College, Dublin, by Sir Wil- 



Beautiful, o'er that bright sleep, 
Hang soft eyes of fondness deep, 
Where his mother bends to pray 
For the loved and far away. 
Father ! guard that household bower, 

Hear that prayer ! 
Back, through thine all-guiding power, 

Lead me there ! 

Darker, wilder grows the night ; 
Not a star sends quivering light 
Through the massy arch of shade 
By the stern, old forest made. 
Thou ! to whose unslumbering eyes 
All my pathway open lies, 
By thy Son who knew distress 
In the lonely wilderness, 
Where no roof to that bless'd head 

Shelter gave — 
Father ! through the time of dread, 

Save — oh, save ! 



BURIAL OF AN EMIGRANT'S CHILD IN 
THE FORESTS. 

Scene. — Tlie banks of a solitary river in an Ame- 
rican forest. A tent imder pine-trees in the fore- 
ground. Agnes sitting before the tent, with a 
child in her 



Agnes. Surely 'tis all a dream — a fever-dream ! 
The desolation and the agony — 
The strange, red sunrise, and the gloomy woods, 
So terrible with their dark giant boughs, 
And the broad, lonely river ! — all a dream ! 
And my boy's voice will wake me, with its clear, 
Wild singing tones, as they were wont to come 
Through the wreath'd sweetbrier at my lattice- 
panes 
In happy, happy England ! Speak to me ! 
Speak to thy mother, bright one ! she hath watch'd 
All the dread night beside thee, till her brain 
Is darken'd by swift waves of fantasies, 
And her soul faint with longing for thy voice. 
Oh ! I must wake him with one gentle kiss 
On his fair brow ! 

(Sltudderingly.) The strange, damp, thrilling touch! 
The marble chill ! Now, now it rushes back — 
Now I know all! — dead — dead! — a fearful word ! 



liam Hamilton, royal astronomer of Ireland, on the 8th 
November 1832. 



580 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



My boy hath left me in the wilderness, 

To journey on without the blessed light 

In his deep, loving eyes. He's gone ! — he's gone ! 

Her Husband enters. 

Husband. Agnes ! my Agnes ! hast thou look'd 
thy last 
On our sweet slumberer'sface? The hour is come — 
The couch made ready for his last repose. 

Agnes. Not yet ! thou canst not take him from me 
If he but left me for a few short days, [ yet ! 

This were too brief a gazing time to draw 
His angel image into my fond heart, 
And fix its beauty there. And now — oh ! now, 
Never again the laughter of his eye 
Shall send its gladdening summer through my soul 
— Never on earth again. Yet, yet delay ! 
Thou canst not take him from me. 

Husband. My beloved ! 
Is it not God hath taken him 1 the God 
That took our first-born, o'er whose early grave 
Thou didst bow down thy saint-like head, and say, 
"His will be done!" 

Agnes. Oh ! that near household grave, 
Under the turf of England, seem'd not half — 
Not half so much to part me from my child 
As these dark woods. It lay beside our home, 
And I could watch the sunshine, through all hours, 
Loving and clinging to the grassy spot ; 
And I could dress its greensward with fresh flowers, 
Familiar meadow-flowers. O'er thee, my babe ! 
The primrose will not blossom ! Oh ! that now, 
Together, by thy fair young sister's side, 
We lay midst England's valleys ! 

Husband. Dost thou grieve, 
Agnes ! that thou hast follow'd o'er the deep 
An exile's fortunes ] If it thus can be, 
Then, after many a conflict cheerily met, 
My spirit sinks at last. 

Agnes. Forgive ! forgive ! 
My Edmund, pardon me ! Oh ! grief is wild — 
Forget its words, quick spray-drops from a fount 
Of unknown bitterness ! Thou art my home ! 
Mine only and my blessed one ! Where'er 
Thy warm heart beats in its true nobleness, 
There is my country ! there my head shall rest, 
And throb no more. Oh ! still, by thy strong love, 
Bear up the feeble reed ! 

(Kneeling with the child in her arms) 
And thou, my God ! 
Hear my soul's cry from this dread wilderness ! 
Oh! hear, and pardon me ! If I have made 
This treasure, sent from thee, too much the ark 
Fraught with mine earthward-clinging happiness, 



Forgetting Him who gave, and might resume, 
Oh, pardon me ! 

If nature hath rebell'd, 
And from thy light turn'd wilfully away, 
Making a midnight of her agony, 
When the despairing passion of her clasp 
Was from its idol stricken at one touch 
Of thine Almighty hand — oh, pardon me ! 
By thy Son's anguish, pardon ! In the soul 
The tempests and the waves will know thy voice — 
Father! say, "Peace, be still !" 

(Giving the child to her husband) 

Farewell, my babe ! 
Go from my bosom now to other rest ! 
With this last kiss on thine unsullied brow, 
And on thy pale, calm cheek these contrite tears, 
I yield thee to thy Maker ! 

Husband. Now, my wife ! 
Thine own meek holiness beams forth once more 
A light upon my path. Now shall I bear, 
From thy dear arms, the slumberer to repose — 
With a calm, trustful heart. 

Agnes. My Edmund ! where — 
Where wilt thou lay him ? 

Husband. See'st thou where the spire 
Of yon dark cypress reddens in the sun 
To burning gold 1 — there — o'er yon willow-tuft ? 
Under that native desert monument 
Lies his lone bed. Our Hubert, since the dawn, 
With the gray mosses of the wilderness [forth, 
Hath lined it closely through ; and there breathed 
E'en from the fulness of his own pure heart, 
A wild, sad forest hymn — a song of tears, 
Which thou wilt learn to love. I heard the boy 
Chanting it o'er his solitary task, 
As wails a wood-bird to the thrilling leaves, 
Perchance unconsciously. 

Agnes. My gentle son ! 
The affectionate, the gifted ! With what joy — 
Edmund, rememberest thou? — with what bright j oy 
His baby brother ever to his arms 
Would spring from rosy sleep, and playfully 
Hide the rich clusters of his gleaming hair 
In that kind, useful breast ! Oh ! now no more ! 
But strengthen me, my God ! and melt my heart, 
Even to a well-spring of adoring tears, 
For many a blessing left. 
(Bending over the child.) Once more, farewell ! 
Oh, the pale, piercing sweetness of that look ! 
How can it be sustain'd 1 Away, away ! 

(After a short pause) 
Edmund ! my woman's nature still is weak — 
I cannot see thee render dust to dust ! 
Go thou, my husband ! to thy solemn task ; 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



581 



I will rest here, and still my soul with prayer 
Till thy return. 

Husband. Then strength be with thy prayer ! 
Peace on thy bosom ! Faith and heavenly hope 
Unto thy spirit ! Fare thee well a while ! 
We must be pilgrims of the woods again, 
After this mournful hour. 

(He goes out vrith the child. — Agnes kneels in 

prayer. — After a time, voices without are heard 

singing.) 

FUNERAL HYMN. 

Where the long reeds quiver, 

Where the pines make moan, 
By the forest-river, 
Sleeps our babe alone. 
England's field-flowers may not deck his grave, 
Cypress shadows o'er him darkly wave. 

Woods unknown receive him, 

Midst the mighty wild ; 

Yet with God we leave him, 

Blessed, blessed child ! 

And our tears gush o'er his lovely dust, 

Mournfully, yet still from hearts of trust. 

Though his eye hath brighten'd 

Oft our weary way, 
And his clear laugh lighten'd 
Half our hearts' dismay ; 
Still in hope we give back what was given, 
Yielding up the beautiful to heaven. 

And to her who bore him, 

Her who long must weep, 
Yet shall heaven restore him 
From his pale, sweet sleep ! 
Those blue eyes of love and peace again 
Through her soul will shine, undimm'd by pain. 

Where the long reeds quiver, 

Where the pines make moan, 
Leave we by the river 
Earth to earth alone ! 
God and Father ! may our journey ings on 
Lead to where the blessed boy is gone ! 

From the exile's sorrow, 

From the wanderer's dread 

Of the night and morrow, 

Early, brightly fled ; 

Thou hast call'd him to a sweeter home 

Than our lost one o'er the ocean's foam. 



Now let thought behold him, 

With his angel look, 
Where those arms enfold him, 
Which benignly took 
Israel's babes to their Good Shepherd's breast, 
When his voice their tender meekness blest. 

Turn thee now, fond mother ! 

From thy dead, oh, turn ! 
Linger not, young brother, 
Here to dream and mourn : 
Only kneel once more around the sod, 
Kneel, and bow submitted hearts to God ! 



EASTER- DAY 
IN A MOUNTAIN CHURCHYARD. 

There is a wakening on the mighty hills, 
A kindling with the spirit of the morn ! 
Bright gleams are scatter'd from the thousand rills, 
And a soft visionary hue is born 

On the young foliage, worn 
By all the embosom'd woods — a silvery green, 
Made up of spring and dew, harmoniously serene. 

And lo ! where, floating through a glory, sings 
The lark, alone amidst a crystal sky ! 
Lo ! where the darkness of his buoyant wings, 
Against a soft and rosy cloud on high, 

Trembles with melody ! 
While the far-echoing solitudes rejoice 
To the rich laugh of music in that voice. 

But purer light than of the early sun 
Is on you cast, mountains of the earth ! 
And for your dwellers nobler joy is won 
Than the sweet echoes of the skylark's mirth, 

By this glad morning's birth ! 
And gifts more precious by its breath are shed 
Than music on the breeze, dew on the violet's head. 

Gifts for the soul, from whose illumined eye 
O'er nature's face the colouring glory flows ; 
Gifts from the fount of immortality, 
Which, fill'd with balm, unknown to human woes, 

Lay hush'd in dark repose, 
Till thou, bright dayspring ! madest its waves our 
By thine unsealing of the burial stone. [own, 

Sing, then, with all your choral strains, ye hills ! 
And let a full victorious tone be given, 
By rock and cavern, to the wind which fills [riven, 
Your urn-like depths with sound ! The tomb is 



582 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



The radiant gate of heaven 
Unfolded — and the stern, dark shadow cast 
By death's o'ersweeping wing, from the earth's 
bosom past. 

And you, ye graves ! upon whose turf I stand, 
Girt with the slumber of the hamlet's dead, 
Time, with a soft and reconciling hand, 
The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread 

O'er every narrow bed : 
But not by time, and not by nature sown 
"Was the celestial seed, whence round you peace 
hath grown. 

Christ hath arisen ! Oh, not one cherish'd head 
Hath, midst the flowery sods, been pillow'd here 
Without a hope, (howe'er the heart hath bled 
In its vain yearnings o'er the unconscious bier,) 

A hope, upspringing clear 
From those majestic tidings of the morn, 
Which lit the living way to all of woman born. 

Thou hast wept mournfully, human love ! 
E'en on this greensward : night hath heard thy cry, 
Heart-stricken one ! thy precious dust above — 
Night, and the hills, which sent forth no reply 

Unto thine agony ! 
But He who wept like thee, thy Lord, thy guide, 
Christ hath arisen, love ! thy tears shall all be dried. 

Dark must have been the gushing of those tears, 
Heavy the unsleeping phantom of the tomb 
On thine impassion'd soul, in elder years, 
When, burden'd with the mystery of its doom, 

Mortality's thick gloom 
Hung o'er the sunny world, and with the breath 
Of the triumphant rose came blending thoughts 
of death. 

By thee, sad Love ! and by thy sister, Fear, 
Then was the ideal robe of beauty wrought 
To vail that haunting shadow, still too near, 
Still ruling secretly the conqueror's thought, 

And where the board was fraught 
With wine and myrtles in the summer bower, 
Felt, e'en when disavow' d, a presence and a power. 

But that dark night is closed : and o'er the dead, 
Here, where the gleamy primrose-tufts have blown, 
And where the mountain-heath a couch has spread, 
And, settling oft on some gray, letter'd stone, 

The redbreast warbles lone ; 
And the wild-bee's deep drowsy murmurs pass, 
Like a low thrill of harp-strings, through the grass : 



Here, midst the chambers of the Christian's sleep, 
We o'er death's gulf may look with trusting eye ; 
For Hope sits, dovelike, on the gloomy deep, 
And the green hills wherein these valleys lie 

Seem all one sanctuary 
Of holiest thought — nor needs their fresh, bright 

sod, [God. 

Urn, wreath, or shrine, for tombs all dedicate to 

Christ hath arisen ! mountain-peaks ! attest — 
Witness, resounding glen and torrent-wave ! 
The immortal courage in the human breast 
Sprung from that victory — tell how oft the brave 

To camp midst rock and cave, 
Nerved by those words, their struggling faith have 

borne, 
Planting the cross on high above the clouds of 



The Alps have heard sweet hymnings for to-day — 
Ay, and wild sounds of sterner, deeper tone 
Have thrill'd their pines, when those that knelt 

to pray 
Rose up to arm ! The pure, high snows have known 

A colouring not their own, 
But from true hearts, which, by that crimson stain, 
Gave token of a trust that call'd no suffering vain. 

Those days are past — the mountains wear no more 
The solemn splendour of the martyr's blood ; 
And may that awful record, as of yore, 
Never again be known to field or flood ! 

E'en though the faithful stood, 
A noble army, in the exulting sight 
Of earth and heaven, which bless'd their battle for 
the right ! 

But many a martyrdom by hearts unshaken 
Is yet borne silently in homes obscure ; 
And many a bitter cup is meekly taken ; 
And, for the strength whereby the just and pure 

Thus steadfastly endure, 
Glory to Him whose victory won that dower ! 
Him from whose rising stream'd that robe of spirit- 
power. 

Glory to Him ! Hope to the suffering breast ! 
Light to the nations ! He hath roll'd away 
The mists which, gathering into deathlike rest, 
Between the soul and heaven's calm ether lay — 

His love hath made it day 
With those that sat in darkness. Earth and sea ! 
Lift up glad strains for man by truth divine made 
free ! 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



583 



THE CHILD READING THE BIBLE. 

" A dancing shape, an image gay, 
To haunt, to startle, to waylay. 



A being breathing thoughtful breath, 

A traveller between life and death." Wordsworth. 

I saw him at his sport erewhile, 

The bright, exulting boy ! 
Like summer's lightning came the smile 

Of his young spirit's joy — 
A flash that, wheresoe'er it broke, 
To life undreamt-of beauty woke. 

His fair locks waved in sunny play, 

By a clear fountain's side, 
Where jewel-colour'd pebbles lay 

Beneath the shallow tide ; 
And pearly spray at times would meet 
The glancing of his fairy feet. 

He twined him wreaths of all spring-flowers, 
Which drank that streamlet's dew ; 

He flung them o'er the wave in showers, 
Till, gazing, scarce I knew 

Which seem'd more pure, or bright, or wild, 

The singing fount or laughing child. 

To look on all that joy and bloom 

Made earth one festal scene, 
Where the dull shadow of the tomb 

Seem'd as it ne'er had been. 
How could one image of decay 
Steal o'er the dawn of such clear day ? 

I saw once more that aspect bright — 
The boy's meek head was boVd 

In silence o'er the Book of Light, 
And, like a golden cloud — 

The still cloud of a pictured sky — 

His locks droop'd round it lovingly. 

And if my heart had deem'd him fair, 

When, in the fountain-glade, 
A creature of the sky and air, 

Almost on wings he play'd ; 
Oh ! how much holier beauty now 
Lit the young human being's brow ! 

The being born to toil, to die, 

To break forth from the tomb 
Unto far nobler destiny 

Than waits the skylark's plume ! 
I saw him, in that thoughtful hour, 
Win the first knowledge of his dower. 



The soul, the awakening soul I saw — ■ 

My watching eye could trace 
The shadows of its new-born awe 

Sweeping o'er that fair face : 
As o'er a flower might pass the shade 
By some dread angel's pinion made ! 

The soul, the mother of deep fears, 

Of high hopes infinite, 
Of glorious dreams, mysterious tears, 

Of sleepless inner sight ; 
Lovely, but solemn, it arose, 
Unfolding what no more might close. 

The red-leaved tablets, 1 undefiled, 

As yet, by evil thought — 
Oh ! little dream'd the brooding child 

Of what within me wrought, 
While his young heart first burn'd and stirr'd, 
And quiver'd to the eternal word. 

And reverently my spirit caught 

The reverence of his gaze — 
A sight with dew of blessing fraught 

To hallow after-days; 
To make the proud heart meekly wise, 
By the sweet faith in those calm eyes. 

It seem'd as if a temple rose 

Before me brightly there ; 
And in the depths of its repose 

My soul o'erflow'd with prayer, 
Feeling a solemn presence nigh — 
The power of infant sanctity ! 

Father ! mould my heart once more 

By thy prevailing breath ! 
Teach me, oh ! teach me to adore 

E'en with that pure one's faith — 
A faith, all made of love and light, 
Child-like, and therefore full of might ! 



A POET'S DYING HYMN. 

" Be mute who will, who can, 
Yet I will praise thee with impassion'd voice ! 
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine 
In such a temple as we now behold, 
Eear'd for thy presence ; therefore am I bound 
To worship, here and every where." — Wordsworth. 

The blue, deep, glorious heavens ! — I lift mine eye, 
And bless thee, my God ! that I have met 

1 "All this, and more than this, is now engraved upon the 
red-leaved tablets of my heart."— Haywood. 



584 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



And own'd thine image in the majesty 

Of their calm temple still ! — that, never yet, 
There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight 
By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night : 
I bless thee, my God ! 

That now still clearer, from their pure expanse, 
I see the mercy of thine aspect shine, 

Touching death's features with a lovely glance 
Of light, serenely, solemnly divine, 

And lending to each holy star a ray 

As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away : 
I bless thee, my God ! 

That I have heard thy voice nor been afraid, 
In the earth's garden — midst the mountains old, 

And the low thrillings of the forest-shade, 
And the wild sound of waters uncontroll'd — 

And upon many a desert plain and shore — 

No solitude — for there I felt thee more : 
I bless thee, my God ! 

And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed 
The gift, the vision of the unseal'd eye, 

To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings spread, 
To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie 

Far in man's heart — if I have kept it free 

And pure, a consecration unto thee : 
I bless thee, my God ! 

If my soul's utterance hath by thee been fraught 
With an awakening power — if thou hast made 

Like the wing'd seed, the breathings of my thought, 
And by the swift winds bid them be convey'd 

To lands of other lays, and there become 

Native as early melodies of home : 

I bless thee, my God ! 

Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath, 
Not for a place midst kingly minstrels dead, 

But that, perchance, a faint gale of thy breath, 
A still small whisper, in my song hath led 

One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne, 

Or but one hope, one prayer, — for this alone 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That I have loved — that I have known the love 
Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs, 

Yet, with a colouring halo from above, 
Tinges and glorifies all earthly things, 

Whate'er its anguish or its woe may be, 

Still weaving links for intercourse with thee : 
I bless thee, my God ! 



That by the passion of its deep distress, 

And by the o'erflowing of its mighty prayer, 

And by the yearning of its tenderness, 

Too full for words upon their stream to bear, 

I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine, 

Well-spring of love, the unfathom'd, the divine, 
I bless thee, my God ! 

That hope hath ne'er my heart or song forsaken, 
High hope, which even from mystery, doubt, or 
dread, 
Calmly, rejoicingly, the things hath taken 

Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed : 
That passing storms have only fann'd the fire 
Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire, 
I bless thee, my God ! 

Now art thou calling me in every gale, 
Each sound and token of the dying day ; 

Thou leav'st me not — though early life grows pale, 
I am not darkly sinking to decay ; 

But, hour by hour, my soul's dissolving shroud 

Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud. 
I bless thee, my God ! 

And if this earth, with all its choral streams, 
And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies, 

And mountain sanctuaries for poet's dreams, 
Be lovely still in my departing eyes — 

'Tis not that fondly I would linger here, 

But that thy foot-prints on its dust appear : 
I bless thee, my God ! 

And that the tender shadowing I behold, 
The tracery veining every leaf and flower, 

Of glories cast in more consummate mould, 
No longer vassals to the changeful hour ; 

That life's last roses to my thoughts can bring 

Rich visions of imperishable spring : 
I bless thee, my God ! 

Yes ! the young, vernal voices in the skies 

Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine ear, 

Seem heralds of th' eternal melodies, 

The spirit-music, imperturb'd and clear — 

The full of soul, yet passionate no more : 

Let me, too, joining those pure strains, adore ! 
I bless thee, my God ! 

Now aid, sustain me still. To thee I come — 
Make thou my dwelling where thy children are! 

And for the hope of that immortal home, 

And for thy Son, the bright and morning star, 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



585 



The sufferer and the victor-king of death, 
I bless thee with my glad song's dying breath ! 
I bless thee, my God ! 

["I have lately written what I consider one of my best pieces 
— ' A Poet's Dying Hymn.' It appeared in the last number 
of Blackwood" (April 1832.)— Letter from Mrs Hemans. 

" It is impossible to read this affecting poem without feel- 
ing how distinctly it breathes the inward echoes of the soul 
to the frequent warnings of the Summoner; those presenti- 
ments which must have long silently possessed her, here for the 
first time finding utterance. Still more strongly does it evidence 
that subdued and serene frame of mind, into which her once 
vivacious temperament and painfully vibrating sensibilities 
were nowso gently and happily subsiding." — Memoir, p. 254.] 



THE FUNERAL DAY OF SIR WALTER 
SCOTT. 

" Many an eye 
May wail the dimming of our shining star."— Shakspeare. 

A glorious voice hath ceased ! 
Mournfully, reverently — the funeral chant 
Breathe reverently ! There is a dreamy sound, 
A hollow murmur of the dying year, 
In the deep woods. Let it be wild and sad ! 
A more iEolian, melancholy tone 
Than ever wail'd o'er bright things perishing ! 
For that is passing from the darken'd land, 
Which the green summer will not bring us back — 
Though all her songs return. The funeral chant 
Breathe reverently ! They bear the mighty forth, 
The kingly ruler in th£ realms of mind ; 
They bear him through the household paths, the 
Where every tree had music of its own [groves, 
To his quick ear of knowledge taught by love— 
And he is silent ! Past the living stream 
They bear him now; the stream whose kindly voice, 
On alien shores, his true heart burn'd to hear — 
And he is silent ! O'er the heathery hills, 
Which his own soul had mantled with a light 
Richer than autumn's purple, now they move — 
And he is silent ! — he, whose flexile lips 
Were but unseal'd, and lo ! a thousand forms, 
From every pastoral glen and fern-clad height, 
In glowing life upsprang, — vassal and chief, 
Rider and steed, with shout and bugld-peal, 
Fast -rushing through the brightly troubled air, 
Like the Wild Huntsman's band. And still they 
To those fair scenes imperishably bound, [live, 
And, from the mountain-mist still flashing by, 
Startle the wanderer who hath listen'd there 
To the seer's voice : phantoms of colour' d thought, 
Surviving him who raised. eloquence ! [dead ! 
power, whose breathings thus could wake the 



Who shall wake thee ? lord of the buried past ! 
And art thou there — to those dim nations join'd, 
Thy subject-host so long 1 The wand is dropp'd, 
The bright lamp broken, which the gifted hand 
Touch'd, and the genii came ! Sing reverently 
The funeral chant ! The mighty is borne home, 
And who shall be his mourners 1 Youth and age, 
For each hath felt his magic — love and grief, 
For he hath communed with the heart of each : 
Yes — the free spirit of humanity 
May join the august procession, for to him 
Its mysteries have been tributary things, 
And all its accents known. From field or wave, 
Never was conqueror on his battle-bier, 
By the veil'd banner and the muffled drum, 
And the proud drooping of the crested head, 
More nobly follow'd home. The last abode, 
The voiceless dwelling of the bard is reach'd : 
A still, majestic spot, girt solemnly 
With all th' imploring beauty of decay ; 
A stately couch midst ruins ! meet for him ' 
With his bright fame to rest in, as a king 
Of other days, laid lonely with his sword 
Beneath his head. Sing reverently the chant 
Over the honour'd grave ! The grave ! — oh, say 
Rather the shrine ! — an altar for the love, 
The light, soft pilgrim steps, the votive wreaths 
Of years unborn — a place where leaf and flower, 
By that which dies not of the sovereign dead, 
Shall be made holy things, where every weed 
Shall have its portion of th' inspiring gift 
From buried glory breathed. And now what strain, 
Making victorious melody ascend 
High above sorrow's dirge, befits the tomb 
Where he that sway'd the nations thus is laid — 
The crown'd of men 1 

A lowly, lowly song. 

Lowly and solemn be 
Thy children's cry to thee, 

Father divine ! 
A hymn of suppliant breath, 
Owning that life and death 

Alike are thine ! 

A spirit on its way, 
Sceptred the earth to sway, 

From thee was sent : 
Now call'st thou back thine own — 
Hence is that radiance flown — 

To earth but lent. 

Watching in breathless awe, 
The bright head bow'd we saw, 



586 SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 


Beneath thy hand ! 


With all the still, small whispers of the night, 


Fill'd by one hope, one fear, 


And with the searching glances of the stars, 


Now o'er a brother's bier 


And with her God, alone : she lifted up 


Weeping we stand. 


Her sweet, sad voice, and, trembling o'er her head, 




The dark leaves thrill'd with prayer — the tearful 


How hath he pass'd ! — the lord 


prayer 


Of each deep bosom-chord, 


Of woman's quenchless, yet repentant love. 


To meet thy sight, 




Unmantled and alone, 


Father of Spirits, hear ! 


On thy bless'd mercy thrown, 


Look on the inmost heart to thee reveal'd, 


Infinite ! 


Look on the fountain of the burning tear, 




Before thy sight in solitude unseal'd ! 


So, from his harvest-home, 




Must the tired peasant come ; 


Hear, Father ! hear, and aid ! 


So, in one trust, 


If I have loved too well, if I have shed, 


Leader and king must yield 


In my vain fondness, o'er a mortal head, 


The naked soul reveal'd 


Gifts on thy shrine, my God ! more fitly laid ; 


To thee, All Just ! 






If I have sought to live 


The sword of many a fight — 


But in one light, and made a human eye 


What then shall be its might 1 


The lonely star of mine idolatry, 


The lofty lay 


Thou that art Love ! oh, pity and forgive ! 


That rush'd on eagle wing — 




What shall its memory bring ? 


Chasten'd and school'd at last, 


What hope, what stay ] 


No more, no more my struggling spirit burns, 




But, fix'd on thee, from that wild worship turns — ■ 


Father ! in that hour, 


What have I said 1 — the deep dream is not past ! 


When earth all succouring power 




Shall disavow ; 


Yet hear ! — if still I love, 


When spear, and shield, and crown 


Oh ! still too fondly — if, for ever seen, 


In faintness are cast down — 


An earthly image comes my heart between 


Sustain us, Thou ! 


And thy calm glory, Father ! throned above ; 


By Him who bow'd to take 


If still a voice is near, 


The death-cup for our sake, 


(E'en while I strive these wanderings to control,) 


The thorn, the rod ; 


An earthly voice disquieting my soul 


From whom the last dismay 


With its deep music, too intensely dear ; 


Was not to pass away — 




Aid us, God ! 


Father ! draw to thee 




My lost affections back ! — the dreaming eyes 


Tremblers beside the grave, 


Clear from their mist — 'Sustain the heart that dies, 


We call on thee to save, 


Give the worn soul once more its pinions free ! 


Father divine ! 




Hear, hear our suppliant breath ! 


I must love on, God ! 


Keep us, in life and death, 


This bosom must love on ! — but let thy breath 


Thine, only thine ! 


Touch and make pure the flame that knows not 




death, 





Bearing it up to heaven — love's own abode ! 


THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS. 


Ages and ages past, the wilderness, 




With its dark cedars, and the thrilling night, 


SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF CORREGGIo's. 


With her clear stars, and the mysterious winds, 


In the deep wilderness unseen she pray'd, 


That waft all sound, were conscious of those prayers. 


The daughter of Jerusalem ; alone 


How many such hath woman's bursting heart 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



587 



Since then, in silence and in darkness breathed, 
Like the dim night-flower's odour, up to God ! 



PRISONERS' EVENING SERVICE. 



A SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 



" From their spheres 
The stars of human glory are cast down 
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings, 
Princes and emperors, and the crown and palms 
Of all the mighty, wither 'd and consumed ' 
Nor is power given to lowliest innocence 
Long to protect her own." Wordsworth. 

Scene — Prison of the Luxembourg in Paris, during 
the Reign of Terror. 

D'Aubigne, an aged Royalist — Blanche, his 



Blanche. What was your doom, my father 1 In 
thine arms 
I lay unconsciously through that dread hour. 
Tell me the sentence ! Could our judges look, 
Without relenting, on thy silvery hair 1 
Was there not mercy, father ] Will they not 
Restore us to our home 1 

D'Aubigne. Yes, my poor child ! 
They send us home. 

Blanche. Oh ! shall we gaze again 
On the bright Loire ? Will the old hamlet spire, 
And the gray turret of our own chateau, 
Look forth to greet us through the dusky elms ? 
Will the kind voices of our villagers, 
The loving laughter in their children's eyes, 
Welcome us back at last 1 But how is this ? 
Father ! thy glance is clouded — on thy brow 
There sits no joy ! 

D'Aubigne. Upon my brow, dear girl ! 
There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace 
As may befit the Christian who receives, 
And recognises in submissive awe, 
The summons of his God. 

Blanche. Thou dost not mean 

No, no ! it cannot be ! Didst thou not say 
They sent us 



1 The last days of two prisoners in the Luxembourg, Sillery 
and La Source, so affeetingly described by Helen Maria 
"Williams, in her Letters from France, gave rise to this little 
scene. These two victims had composed a simple hymn , which 
they sang together in a low and restrained voice every night. 

2 A French royalist officer, dying upon a field of battle, and 



D'Aubigne. Where is the spirit's home? 
Oh ! most of all, in these dark, evil days, 
Where should it be— but in that world serene, 
Beyond the sword's reach and the tempest's power, 
— Where, but in heaven % 

Blanche. My father ! 

D'Aubigne. We must die. 
We must look up to God, and calmly die. 
Come to my heart, and weep there ! For awhile 
Give nature's passion way ; then brightly rise 
In the still courage of a woman's heart. 
Do I not know thee 1 Do I ask too much 
From mine own noble Blanche ] 

Blanche, (falling onhis bosom.) Oh ! clasp me fast! 
Thy trembling child ! Hide, hide me in thine arms — 
Father ! 

D'A ubigne. Alas ! my flower, thou'rt young to go — ■ 
Young, and so fair ! Yet were it worse, methinks, 
To leave thee where the gentle and the brave, 
The loyal-hearted and the chivalrous, 
And they that loved their God, have all been swept, 
Like the sere leaves, away. For them no hearth 
Through the wide land was left inviolate, 
No altar holy ; therefore did they fall, 
Rejoicing to depart. The soil is steep'd 
In noble blood ; the temples are gone down ; 
The voice of prayer is hush'd, or fearfully [livel 
Mutter'd, like sounds of guilt. Why, who would 
Who hath not panted, as a dove, to flee, 
To quit for ever the dishonour'd soil, 
The burden'd air ! Our God upon the cross — 
Our king upon the scaffold 2 — let us think 
Of these — and fold endurance to our hearts, 
And bravely die ! 

Blanche. A dark and fearful way ! 
An evil doom for thy dear, honour'd head ! 
thou, the kind, the gracious ! whom all eyes 
Bless'd as they look'd upon ! Speak yet again — 
Say, will they part us 1 

D'Aubigne. No, my Blanche ; in death, 
We shall not be divided. 

Blanche. Thanks to God ! 
He, by thy glance, will aid me — I shall see 
His light before me to the last. And when— 
Oh, pardon these weak shrinkings of thy child ! — 
When shall the hour befall 1 

D'Aubigne. Oh ! swiftly now, 
And suddenly, with brief, dread interval, 

hearing some one near him uttering the most plaintive lamen- 
tations, turned towards the sufferer, and thus addressed him: — ■ 
" My friend, whoever you may be, remember that your God 
expired upon the cross — your king upon the scaffold — and he 
who now speaks to you has had his limbs shot from under hira- 
Meet your fate as becomes a man." 



588 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



Comes down the mortal stroke. But of that hour 
As yet I know not. Each low throbbing pulse 
Of the quick pendulum may usher in 
Eternity ! [hand 

Blanche, {kneeling beforehim.) My father! lay thy 
On thy poor Blanche's head, and once again 
Bless her with thy deep voice of tenderness — 
Thus breathing saintly courage through her soul, 
Ere we are call'd. 

D'Aubigne. If I may speak through tears ! — 
Well may I bless thee, fondly, fervently, 
Child of my heart ! — thou who dost look on me 
With thy lost mother's angel eyes of love ! 
Thou, that hast been a brightness in my path, 
A guest of heaven unto my lonely soul, 
A stainless lily in my widow'd house, 
There springing up, with'soft light round thee shed, 
For immortality ! Meek child of God ! 
I bless thee — He will bless thee ! In his love 
He calls thee now from this rude stormy world 
To thy Bedeemer's breast ! And thou wilt die, 
As thou hast lived — my duteous, holy Blanche ! 
In trusting and serene submissiveness, 
Humble, yet full of heaven. 

Blanche, {rising.) Now is there strength 
Infused through all my spirit. I can rise 
And say, " Thy will be done ! " [child ! 

D'Aubigne, {pointing upwards) See'st thou, my 
Yon faint light in the west 1 The signal star 
Of our due vesper-service, gleaming in 
Through the close dungeon-grating ! Mournfully 
It seems to quiver ; yet shall this night pass, 
Tliis night alone, without the lifted voice 
Of adoration in our narrow cell, 
As if unworthy fear or wavering faith 
Silenced the strain 1 No ! let it waft to heaven 
The prayer, the hope, of poor mortality, 
In its dark hour once more ! And we will sleep, 
Yes — calmly sleep, when our last rite is closed. 
[They sing together. 

PRISONER'S EVENING SONG. 

We see no more in thy pure skies, 
How soft, God ! the sunset dies ; 
How every colour'd hill and wood 
Seems melting in the golden flood : 
Yet, by the precious memories won 
From bright hours now for ever gone, 
Father ! o'er all thy works, we know, 
Thou still art shedding beauty's glow ; 
Still touching every cloud and tree 
With glory, eloquent of thee ; 
Still feeding all thy flowers with light, 
Though man hath barr'd it from our sight. 



We know thou reign'st, the Unchanging One, the 

All-just ! 
And bless thee still with free and boundless trust! 

We read no more, God ! thy ways 

On earth, in these wild, evil days. 

The red sword in the oppressor's hand 

Is ruler of the weeping land ; 

Fallen are the faithful and the pure, 

No shrine is spared, no hearth secure. 

Yet, by the deep voice from the past, 

Which tells us these things cannot last — 

And by the hope which finds no ark 

Save in thy breast, when storms grow dark — 

We trust thee ! As the sailor knows 

That in its place of bright repose 

His pole-star burns, though mist and cloud 

May veil it with a midnight shroud, 

We know thou reign'st, All-holy One, All-just ! 

And bless thee still with love's own boundless trust. 

We feel no more that aid is nigh, * 

When our faint hearts within us die. 

We suffer— and we know our doom 

Must be one suffering till the tomb. 

Yet, by the anguish of thy Son 

When his last hour came darkly on ; 

By his dread cry, the air which rent 

In terror of abandonment ; 

And by his parting word, which rose 

Through faith victorious o'er all woes — 

We know that thou may'st wound, ma/st break 

The spirit, but wilt ne'er forsake ! 

Sad suppliants whom our brethren spurn, 

In our deep need to thee we turn ! 

To whom but thee ? All-merciful, All-just ! 

In life, in death, we yield thee boundless trust ! 



HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEEES 
IN TIMES OF PERSECUTION. 



: Thanks be to God for the mountains ! " 

Hovvitt's " Book of the Seasons. 



Foe the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 
Thou hast made thy children mighty, 

By the touch of the mountain-sod. 
Thou hast fix'd our ark of refuge 

Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 589 


We are watchers of a beacon 


When the sea-fight was done : 


Whose light must never die ; 


The sons of England knelt, 


We are guardians of an altar 


With hearts that now could melt, 


Midst the silence of the sky : 


For on the wave her battle had been won. 


The rocks yield founts of courage, 




Struck forth as by thy rod ; 


Round their tall ship, the main 


For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 


Heaved with a dark red stain, 


Our God, our fathers' God ! 


Caught not from sunset's cloud ; 




While with the tide swept past 


For the dark, resounding caverns, 


Pennon and shiver'd mast, 


Where thy still, small voice is heard ; 


Which to the Ocean-Queen that day had bow'd. 


For the strong pines of the forests, 




That by thy breath are stirr'd ; 


But free and fair on high, 


For the storms, on whose free pinions 


A native of the sky, 


Thy spirit walks abroad ; 


Her streamer met the breeze ; 


For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 


It flow'd o'er fearless men, 


Our God, our fathers' God ! 


Though, hush'd and child-like then, 




Before their God they gather'd on the seas. 


The royal eagle darteth 




On his quarry from the heights, 


Oh ! did not thoughts of home 


And the stag that knows no master, 


O'er each bold spirit come, 


Seeks there his wild delights ; 


As from the land sweet gales ] 


But we, for thy communion, 


In every word of prayer 


Have sought the mountain-sod; 


Had not some hearth a share, 


For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 


Some bower, inviolate midst England's vales 1 


Our God, our fathers' God ! 






Yes ! bright, green spots that lay 


The banner of the chieftain 


In beauty far away, 


Far, far below us waves ; 


Hearing no billow's roar, 


The war-horse of the spearman 


Safer from touch of spoil, 


Cannot reach our lofty caves ; 


For that day's fiery toil, 


Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold 


Rose on high hearts, that now with love gush'd 


Of freedom's last abode ; 


o'er. 


For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 




Our God, our fathers' God ! 


A solemn scene and dread ! 




The victors and the dead, 


For the shadow of thy presence, 


The breathless burning sky ! 


Kound our camp of rock outspread ; 


And, passing with the race 


For the stern defiles of battle, 


Of waves that keep no trace, 


Bearing record of our dead ; 


The wild, brief signs of human victory ! 


For the snows and for the torrents, 




For the free heart's burial-sod ; 


A stern, yet holy scene ! 


For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 


Billows, where strife hath been, 


Our God, our fathers' God ! 


Sinking to awful sleep ; 




And words, that breathe the sense 




Of God's omnipotence, 




Making a minster of that silent deep. 


PRAYER AT SEA AFTER VICTORY. 


Borne through such hours afar, 


" The land shall never rue, 
So England to herself do prove but true." — Shakspeare. 


Thy flag hath been a star, 

Where eagle's wings near flew : 




England ! the unprofaned, 


Through evening's bright repose 


Thou of the earth unstain'd, 


A voice of prayer arose, 

i 


Oh ! to the banner and the shrine be true ! 







590 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



THE INDIAN'S EEVENGE. 

SCENE IN THE LIFE OF A MORAVIAN MISSIONARY. 

[Circumstances similar to those on which this scene is 
founded are recorded in Carne's Narrative of the Moravian 
Missions in Greenland, and gave rise to the dramatic sketch.] 

" But by my wrongs and by my wrath. 
To-morrow Areouski's breath 
That fires yon heaven with storms of death, 
Shall light me to the foe ! " 

Indian Song in " Gertrude of Wyoming." 

Scene. — TJie shore of a Lake surrounded by deep 
woods. A solitary cabin on its banks, over- 
shadowed by maple and sycamore trees. Herr- 
mann, the missionary, seated alone before the 
cabin. The hour is evening twilight. 

Herrmann. Was that the light from some lone, 
swift canoe 
Shooting across the waters 1 — No, a flash 
From the night's first, quick fire-fly, lost again 
In the deep bay of cedars. Not a bark 
Is on the wave ; no rustle of a breeze [world, 
Comes through the forest. In this new, strange 
Oh ! how mysterious, how eternal, seems 
The mighty melancholy of the woods ! 
The desert's own great spirit, infinite ! 
Little they know, in mine own fatherland, 
Along the castled Rhine, or e'en amidst 
The wild Harz mountains, or the sylvan glades 
Deep in the Odenwald — they little know 
Of what is solitude ! In hours like this, 
There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage-hearths 
Pour forth red light through vine-hung lattices, 
To guide the peasant, singing cheerily, 
On the home-path; while round his lowly porch, 
With eager eyes awaiting his return, 
The cluster'd faces of his children shine 
To the clear harvest moon. Be still, fond thoughts! 
Melting my spirit's grasp from heavenly hope 
By your vain, earthward yearnings. my God ! 
Draw me still nearer, closer unto thee, 
Till all the hollow of these deep desires 
May with thyself be fill'd ! Be it enough 
At once to gladden and to solemnise 
My lonely life, if for thine altar here 
In this dread temple of the wilderness, 
By prayer, and toil, and watching, I may win 
The offering of one heart, one human heart, 
Bleeding, repenting, loving ! 

Hark ! a step, 
An Indian tread ! I know the stealthy sound — 



'Tis on some quest of evil, through the grass 
Gliding so serpent-like. 

{He comes forward, and meets an Indian warrior 
armed)} 
Enonio, is it thou % I see thy form [eye 
Tower stately through the dusk, yet scarce mine 
Discerns thy face. 

Enonio. My father speaks my name. 

Herrmann. Are not the hunters from the chase^ 
return'd 1 
The night-fires lit 1 Why is my son abroad ? 

Enonio. The warrior's arrow knows of nobler prey 
Than elk or deer. Now let my father leave 
The lone path free. 

Herrmann. The forest way is long 
From the red chieftain's home. Rest thee awhile 
Beneath my sycamore, and we will speak 
Of these things further. 

Enonio. Tell me not of rest ! 
My heart is sleepless, and the dark night swift. 
I must begone. [stay ! 

Herrmann, (solemnly.) No, warrior ! thou must 
The Mighty One hath given me power to search 
Thy soul with piercing words — and thou must stay, 
And hear me, and give answer ! If thy heart 
Be grown thus restless, is it not because 
Within its dark folds thou hast mantled up 
Some burning thought of ill 1 [I rest 1 — 

Enonio, (with sudden impetuosity.) How should 
Last night the spirit of my brother came, 
An angry shadow in the moonlight streak, 
And said, " Avenge me ! " In the clouds this morn 
I saw the frowning colour of his blood — 
And that, too, had a voice. I lay at noon 
Alone beside the sounding waterfall, 
And through its thunder-music spake a tone — 
A low tone piercing all the roll of waves — 
And said " Avenge me/" Therefore have I raised 
The tomahawk, and strung the bow again, 
That I may send the shadow from my couch, 
And take the strange sound from the cataract, 
And sleep once more. 

Herrmann. A better path, my son ! 
Unto the still and dewy land of sleep, 
My hand in peace can guide thee — e'en the way 
Thy dying brother trod. Say, didst thou love 
That lost one well 1 

Enonio. Know'st thou not we grew up 
Even as twin roes amidst the wilderness ? 
Unto the chase we journey'd in one path ; 
We stemm'd the lake in one canoe ; we lay 
Beneath one oak to rest. When fever hung 
Upon my burning lips, my brother's hand 
Was still beneath my head ; my brother's robe 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



591 



Cover'd my bosom from the chill night-air — 
Our lives were girdled by one belt of love 
Until he turn'd him from his father's gods. 
And then my soul fell from him — then the grass 
Grew in the way between our parted homes; 
And wheresoe'er I wander' d, then it seem'd 
That all the woods were silent. I went forth — 
I journey 'd, with my lonely heart, afar, 
And so return'd — and where was he ? The earth 
Own'd him on more. 

Herrmann. But thou thyself, since then, 
Hast turn'd thee from the idols of thy tribe, 
And, like thy brother, bow'd the suppliant knee 
To the one God. 

Enonio. Yes ! I have learn'd to pray 
With my white father's words, yet all the more 
My heart, that shut against my brother's love, 
Hath been within me as an arrowy fire, 
Burning my sleep away. In the night-hush, 
Midst the strange whispers and dim shadowy things 
Of the great forests, I have call'd aloud, 
" Brother ! forgive, forgive ! " He answer'd not — 
His deep voice, rising from the land of souls, 
Cries but "Avenge me!" — and I go forth now 
To slay his murderer, that when next his eyes 
Gleam on me mournfully from that pale shore, 
I may look up, and meet their glance, and say, 
"I have avenged thee !" 

Herrmann. Oh ! that human love 
Should be the root of this dread bitterness, 
Till heaven through all the fever'd being pours 
Transmuting balsam ! Stay, Enonio ! stay ! 
Thy brother calls thee not ! The spirit-world 
Where the departed go, sends back to earth 
No visitants for evil. 'Tis the might 
Of the strong passion, the remorseful grief 
At work in thine own breast, which lends the voice 
Unto the forest and the cataract, 
The angry colour to the clouds of morn, 
The shadow to the moonlight. Stay, my son ! 
Thy brother is at peace. Beside his couch, 
When of the murderer's poison'd shaft he died, 
I knelt and pray'd ; he named his Saviour's name, 
Meekly, beseechingly ; he spoke of thee 
In pity and in love. 

Enonio, {hurriedly) Did he not say 
My arrow should avenge him ? 

Herrmann. His last words 
Were all forgiveness. 

Enonio. What ! and shall the man 
Who pierced him with the shaft of treachery, 
Walk fearless forth in joy? 

Herrmann. Was he not once 
Thy brother's friend? Oh ! trust me, not in joy 



He walks the frowning forest. Did keen love, 
Too late repentant of its heart estranged, 
Wake in thy haunted bosom, with its train 
Of sounds and shadows — and shall he escape ? 
Enonio, dream it not ! Our God, the All-just, 
Unto himself reserves this royalty — 
The secret chastening of the guilty heart, 
The fiery touch, the scourge that purifies, 
Leave it with him ! Yet make it not thy hope : 
For that strong heart of thine — oh ! listen yet — 
Must, in its depths, o'ercome the very wish 
For death or torture to the guilty one, 
Ere it can sleep again. 

Enonio. My father speaks 
Of change, for man too mighty. 

Herrmann. I but speak 
Of that which hath been, and again must be, 
If thou wouldst join thy brother, in the life 
Of the bright country where, I well believe, 
His soul rejoices. He had known such change : 
He died in peace. He, whom his tribe once named 
The Avenging Eagle, took to his meek heart, 
In its last pangs, the spirit of those words 
Which, from the Saviour's cross, went up to 

heaven — 
"Forgive them, for they know not what they do ! 
Father, forgive!" — And o'er the eternal bounds 
Of that celestial kingdom, undefiled, 
Where evil may not enter, he, I deem, 
Hath to his Master pass'd. He waits thee there — 
For love, we trust, springs heavenward from the 

grave, 
Immortal in its holiness. He calls 
His brother to the land of golden light 
And ever-living fountains — couldst thou hear 
His voice o'er those bright waters, it would say, 
" My brother ! oh ! be pure, be merciful ! 
That we may meet again." 

Enonio, (hesitating) Can I return 
Unto my tribe, and unavenged? 

Herrmann. To Him, 
To Him return, from whom thine erring steps 
Have wander'd far and long ! Eeturn, my son, 
To thy Bedeemer ! Died he not in love — 
The sinless, the divine, the Son of God — 
Breathing forgiveness midst all agonies ? 
And we, dare we be ruthless ? By his aid 
Shalt thou be guided to thy brother's place 
Midst the pure spirits. Oh ! retrace the way 
Back to thy Saviour ! he rejects no heart 
E'en with the dark stains on it, if true tears 
Be o'er them shower'd. Ay ! weep, thou Indian 

chief ! 
For, by the kindling moonlight, I behold 



592 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



Thy proud lips working — weep, relieve thy soul ! 
Tears will not shame thy manhood, in the hour 
Of its great conflict. 

Enonio, (giving up his weapons to Herrmann.) 
Father ! take the bow, 
Keep the sharp arrows till the hunters call 
Forth to the chase once more. And let me dwell 
A little while, my father ! by thy side, 
That I may hear the blessed words again — 
Like water-brooks amidst the summer hills — 
From thy true lips flow forth ; for in my heart 
The music and the memory of their sound 
Too long have died away. 

Herrmann. Oh, welcome back, 
Friend, rescued one ! Yes, thou shalt be my guest, 
And we will pray beneath my sycamore 
Together, morn and eve ; and I will spread 
Thy couch beside my fire, and sleep at last — 
After the visiting of holy thoughts — 
With dewy wings shall sink upon thine eyes ! 
Enter my home, and welcome, welcome back 
To peace, to God, thou lost and found again ! 

(They go into the cabin together. — Herrmann, 

lingering for a moment on the threshold, looks 

up to the starry shies.) 

Father ! that from amidst yon glorious worlds 
Now look'st on us, thy children ! make this hour 
Blessed for ever ! May it see the birth 
Of thine own image in the unfathom'd deep 
Of an immortal soul, — a thing to name 
With reverential thought, a solemn world ! 
To thee more precious than those thousand stars 
Burning on high in thy majestic heaven ! 



EVENING SONG OF THE WEARY. 

Father of heaven and earth ! 
I bless thee for the night, 
The soft, still night ! 
The holy pause of care and mirth, 
Of sound and light ! 

Now, far in glade and dell, 
Flower-cup, and bud, and bell, 

Have shut around the sleeping woodlark's nest ; 
The bee's long murmuring toils are done, 
And I, the o'erwearied one, 
O'erwearied and o'erwrought, 

Bless thee, God ! Father of the oppress'd ! 
With my last waking thought, 
In the still night ! 



Yes ! e'er I sink to rest, 
By the fire's dying light, 
Thou Lord of earth and heaven ! 
I bless thee, who hast given, 
Unto life's fainting travellers, the night — 
The soft, still, holy night. 



THE DAY OF FLOWERS. 

a mother's walk with her child. 

" One spirit— His 
Who wore the platted thcrn with bleeding brows, 
Kules universal nature. Not a flower 
But shows some touch, in freckle, freak, or stain, 
Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires 
Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues, 
And bathes their eyes with nectar. 
Happy who walks with him !" Cowper. 

Come to the woods, my boy ! 
Come to the streams and bowery dingles forth, 
My happy child ! The spirit of bright hours 
Woos us in every wind ; fresh wild-leaf scents, 
From thickets, where the lonely stock-dove broods, 
Enter our lattice; fitful songs of joy 
Float in with each soft current of the air ; — 
And we will hear their summons ; we will give 
One day to flowers, and sunshine, and glad thoughts, 
And thou shalt revel midst free nature's wealth, 
And for thy mother twine wild wreaths; while she, 
From thy delight, wins to her own fond heart 
The vernal ecstasy of childhood back. 
Come to the woods, my boy ! 

What ! wouldst thou lead already to the path 

Along the copsewoodbrook? Come, then! in truth 

Meet playmate for a child, a blessed child, 

Is a glad,, singing stream, heard or unheard, 

Singing its melody of happiness 

Amidst the reeds, and bounding in free grace 

To that sweet chime. With what a sparkling life 

It fills the shadowy dingle ! — now the wing 

Of some low-skimming swallow shakes bright spray 

Forth to the sunshine from its dimpled wave ; 

Now, from some pool of crystal darkness deep, 

The trout springs upward, with a showery gleam 

And plashing sound of waters. What swift rings 

Of mazy insects o'er the shallow tide 

Seem, as they glance, to scatter sparks of light 

From burnish'd films ! And mark yon silvery line 

Of gossamer, so tremulously hung 

Across the narrow current, from the tuft 

Of hazels to the hoary poplar's bough ! 

See, in the air's transparence, how it waves, 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



593 



Quivering and glistening with each faintest gale, 
Yet breaking not — a bridge for fairy shapes, 
How delicate, how wondrous ! 

Yes, my boy ! 
Well may we make the stream's bright, win ding vein 
Our woodland guide, for He who made the stream 
Made it a clue to haunts of loveliness, 
For ever deepening. Oh, forget him not, 
Dear child ! That airy gladness which thou feel'st 
Wafting thee after bird and butterfly, 
As 'twere a breeze within thee, is not less 
His gift, his blessing on thy spring-time hours, 
Than this rich, outward sunshine, mantling all 
The leaves, and grass, and mossy-tinted stones 
With summer glory. Stay thy bounding step, 
My merry wanderer ! — let us rest a while 
By this clear pool, where, in the shadow flung 
From alder boughs and osiers o'er its breast, 
The soft red of the flowering willow-herb 
So vividly is pictured. Seems it not 
E'en melting to a more transparent glow 
In that pure glass 1 Oh ! beautiful are streams ! 
And, through all ages, human hearts have loved 
Their music, still accordant with each mood 
Of sadness or of joy. And love hath grown 
Into vain worship, which hath left its trace 
On sculptured urn and altar, gleaming still 
Beneath dim olive-boughs, by many a fount 
Of Italy and Greece. But we will take 
Our lesson e'en from erring hearts, which bless'd 
The river-deities or fountain-nymphs, 
For the cool breeze, and for the freshening shade, 
And the sweet water's tune. The One supreme, 
The all-sustaining, ever-present God, 
Who dower'd the soul with immortality, 
Gave also these delights, .to cheer on earth 
Its fleeting passage ; therefore let us greet 
Each wandering flower-scent as a boon from Him, 
Each bird-note, quivering midst light summer 

leaves, 
And every rich celestial tint unnamed, 
Wherewith transpierced, the clouds of morn and 
Kindle and melt away ! [eve, 

And now, in love, 
In grateful thoughts rejoicing, let us bend 
Our footsteps onward to the dell of flowers 
Around the ruin'd mansion. Thou, my boy ! 
Not yet, I deem, hast visited that lorn 
But lovely spot, whose loveliness for thee 
Will wear no shadow of subduing thought — 
No colouring from the past. This way our path 
Winds through the hazels. Mai'k how brightly 

shoots 
The dragon-fly along the sunbeam's line, 



Crossing the leafy gloom. How full of life, 
The life of song, and breezes, and free wings, 
Is all the murmuring shade ! and thine, oh thmeJ 
Of all the brightest and the happiest here, 
My blessed child ! my gift of God ! that makest 
My heart o'erflow with summer ! 

Hast thou twined 
Thy wreath so soon ! yet will we loiter not, 
Though here the blue-bell wave, and gorgeously 
Round the brown, twisted roots of yon scathed oak 
The heath-flower spread its purple. We must leave 
The copse, and through yon broken avenue, 
Shadow'd by drooping walnut-foliage, reach 
The ruin's glade. 

And lo ! before us, fair 
Yet desolate, amidst the golden day, 
It stands, that house of silence ! wedded now 
To verdant Nature by the o'ermantling growth 
Of leaf and tendril, which fond woman's hands 
Once loved to train. Ho w the rich wallflower-scent 
From every niche and mossy cornice floats, 
Embalming its decay ! The bee alone 
Is murmuring from its casement, whence no more 
Shall the sweet eyes of laughing children shine, 
Watching some homeward footstep. See! unbound 
From the old fretted stone-work, what thick wreaths 
Of jasmine, borne by waste exuberance down, 
Trail through the grass their gleaming stars, and load 
The air with mournful fragrance — for it speaks 
Of life gone hence ; and the faint, southern breath 
Of myrtle-leaves, from yon forsaken porch, 
Startles the soul with sweetness ! Yet rich knots 
Of garden flowers, far wandering, and self-sown 
Through all the sunny hollow, spread around 
A flush of youth and joy, free nature's joy, 
Undimm'd by human change. How kindly here, 
With the low thyme and daisies, they have blent ! 
And, under arches of wild eglantine, 
Drooping from this tall elm, how strangely seems 
The frail gum-cistus o'er the turf to snow 
Its pearly flower-leaves down ! Go, happy boy ! 
Rove thou at will amidst these roving sweets ; 
Whilst I, beside this fallen dial-stone, 
Under the tall moss-rose tree, long unpruned, 
Rest where thick clustering pansies weave around 
Their many-tinged mosaic, midst dark grass 
Bedded like jewels. 

He hath bounded on, 
Wild with delight !— the crimson on his cheek 
Purer and richer e'en than that which lies 
In this deep-hearted rose-cup ! Bright moss-rose ! 
Though now so lorn, yet surely, gracious tree ! 
Once thou wert cherish'd ! and, by human love, 
Through niany a summer duly visited 



594 SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 


For thy bloom-offerings, which o'er festal board, 




And youthful brow, and e'en the shaded couch 




Of long-secluded sickness, may have shed 


HYMN OF THE TBAVELLEB'S 


A joy, now lost. 


HOUSEHOLD ON HIS BETUBN, 


Yet shall there still be joy, 




Where God hath pour'd forth beauty, and the voice 


IN THE OLDEN TIME. 


Of human love shall still be heard in praise 




Over his glorious gifts ! Father ! Lord ! 


Jot ! the lost one is restored ! 


The All-beneficent ! I bless thy name, 


Sunshine comes to hearth and board. 


That thouhast mantled the green earth with flow'rs, 


From the far-off countries old 


Linking our hearts to nature ! By the love 


Of the diamond and red gold ; 


Of their wild blossoms, our young footsteps first 


From the dusky archer-bands, 


Into her deep recesses are beguiled — ■ 


Boamers of the fiery sands ; 


Her minster-cells — dark glen and forest bower, 


From the desert winds, whose breath 


Where, thrilling with its earliest sense of thee, 


Smites with sudden, silent death ; 


Amidst the low, religious whisperings 


He hath reach'd his home again, 


And shivery leaf-sounds of the solitude, 


Where we sing 


The spirit wakes to worship, and is made 


In thy praise a fervent strain, 


Thy living temple. By the breath of flowers, 


God our King ! 


Thou callest us, from city throngs and cares, 




Back to the woods, the birds, the mountain-streams, 


Mightiest ! unto thee he turn'd 


That sing of thee ! back to free childhood's heart, 


When the noon-day fiercest burn'd : 


Fresh with the dews of tenderness! Thou bidd'st 


When the fountain-springs were far, 


The lilies of the field with placid smile 


And the sounds of Arab war 


Beprove man's feverish strivings, and infuse 


Swell'd upon the sultry blast, 


Through his worn soul a more unworldly life, 


And the sandy columns past, 


With their soft, holy breath. Thou hast not left 


Unto thee he cried ; and thou, 


His purer nature, with its fine desires, 


Merciful ! didst hear his vow ! 


Uncared for in this universe of thine ! 


Therefore unto thee again 


The glowing rose attests it, the beloved 


Joy shall sing 


Of poet-hearts, touch'd by their fervent dreams 


Many a sweet and thankful strain, 


With spiritual light, and made a source 


God our King ! 


Of heaven-ascending thoughts. E'en to faint age 




Thou lend'st the vernal bliss : the old man's eye 


Thou wert with him on the main, 


Falls on the kindling blossoms, and his soul 


And the snowy mountain-chain, 


Bemembers youth and love, and hopefully 


And the rivers, dark and wide, 


Turns unto thee, who call'st earth's buried germs 


Which through Indian forests glide : 


From dust to splendour ; as the mortal seed 


Thou didst guard him from the wrath 


Shall, at thy summons, from the grave spring up 


Of the lion in his path, 


To put on glory, to be girt with power, 


And the arrows on the breeze, 


And fill'd with immortality. Beceive 


And the dropping poison-trees. 


Thanks, blessings, love, for these, thy lavish boons, 


Therefore from our household train 


And, most of all, their heavenward influences, 


Oft shall spring 


Thou that gavest us flowers ! 


Unto thee a blessing strain, 


Beturn, my boy ! — 


God our King ! 


With all thy chaplets and bright bands, return ! 




See, with how deep a crimson eve hath touch'd 


Thou to his lone, watching wife 


And glorified the ruin ! — glow-worm light 


Hast brought back the light of life ! 


Will twinkle on the dewdrops, ere we reach 


Thou hast spared his loving child 


Our home again. Come ! with thy last sweet prayer 


Home to greet him from the wild. 


At thy bless'd mother's knee, to-night shall thanks 


Though the suns of Eastern skies 


Unto our Father in his heaven arise, 


On his cheek have set their dyes, 


For all the gladness, all the beauty shed 


Though long toils and sleepless cares 


O'er one rich day of flowers. 


On his brow have blanch'd the hairs, 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



595 



Yet the night of fear is flown — 
He is living, and our own ! 
Brethren ! spread his festal board, 
Hang his mantle and his sword, 
With the armour, on the wall — 
While this long, long silent hall 
Joyfully doth hear again 

Voice and string 
Swell to thee the exulting strain, 

God our King ! 



THE PAINTER'S LAST WORK. 

[Suggested by the closing scene in the life of the painter 
Blake, which is beautifully related by Allan Cunningham.] 

" Clasp me a little longer on the brink 
Of life, while I can feel thy dear caress ; 
And when this heart hath ceased to beat, oh ! think, 
And let it mitigate thy woe's excess, 
That thou hast been to me all tenderness, 
And friend to more than human friendship just — 
Oh! by that retrospect of happiness, 
And by the hope of an immortal trust, 
God shall assuage thy pangs when I am laid in dust !"— Campbell. 

The Scene is an English Cottage. The lattice opens 
upon a Landscape at sunset. 

Eugene, Teresa. 

Teresa. The fever's hue hath left thy cheek, 

beloved ! 
Thine eyes, that make the dayspring in my heart, 
Are clear and still once more ! Wilt thou look 

forth? 
Now, while the sunset with low streaming light — 
The light thou lovest — hath made the elm-wood 

stems 
All burning bronze, the river molten gold ! 
Wilt thou be raised upon thy couch, to meet 
The rich air fill'd with wandering scents and sounds'? 
Or shall I lay thy dear, dear head once more 
On this true bosom, lulling thee to rest 
With our own evening hymn ] 

Eugene. Not now, dear love ! 
My soul is wakeful — lingering to look forth, 
Not on the sun, but thee ! Doth the light sleep 
On the stream tenderly 1 and are the stems 
Of our own elm-trees, by its alchemy, 
So richly changed ] and is the sweetbrier-scent 
Floating around 1 But I have said farewell, 
Farewell to earth, Teresa ! — not to thee ; 
Nor yet to our deep love — nor yet awhile 
Unto the spirit of mine art, which- flows 
Back on my soul in mastery. One last work ! 



And I will shrine my wealth of glowing thoughts, 
Clinging affections, and undying hopes, 
All, all in that memorial ! 

Teresa. Oh, what dream 
Is this, mine own Eugene 1 Waste thou not thus 
Thy scarce-returning strength; keep thy rich 

thoughts 
For happier days — they will not melt away 
Like passing music from the lute. Dear friend ! 
Dearest of friends ! thou canst win back at will 
The glorious visions. 

Eugene. Yes ! the unseen land 
Of glorious visions hath sent forth a voice 
To call me hence. Oh, be thou not deceived ! 
Bind to thy heart no earthly hope, Teresa ! 
I must, must leave thee ! Yet be strong, my love ! 
As thou hast still been gentle. 

Teresa. Eugene ! 
What will this dim world be to me, Eugene ! 
When wanting thy bright soul, the life of all — 
My only sunshine 1 How can I bear on 1 
How can we part 1 — we that have loved so well, 
With clasping spirits link'd so long by grief, 
By tears, by prayer ] 

Eugene. E'en therefore we can part, 
With an immortal trust, that such high love 
Is not of things to perish. 

Let me leave 
One record still of its ethereal flame 
Brightening through death's cold shadow. Once 



Stand with thy meek hands folded on thy breast, 
And eyes half veil'd, in thine own soul absorb'd, 
As in thy watchings ere I sink to sleep ; 
And I will give the bending, flower-like grace 
Of that soft form, and the still sweetness throned 
On that pale brow, and in that quivering smile 
Of voiceless love, a life that shall outlast 
Their delicate earthly being. There ! thy head 
Bow'd down with beauty, and with tenderness, 
And lowly thought — even thus — my own Teresa ! 
Oh! the quick-glancing radiance and bright bloom, 
That once around thee hung, have melted now 
Into more solemn light — but holier far, 
And dearer, and yet lovelier in mine eyes, 
Than all that summer-flush ! For by my couch, 
In patient and serene devotedness, 
Thou hast made those rich hues and sunny smiles 
Thine offering unto me. Oh ! I may give 
Those pensive lips, that clear Madonna brow, 
And the sweet earnestness of that dark eye, 
Unto the canvass ; I may catch the flow 
Of all those drooping locks, and glorify, 
With a soft halo, what is imaged thus — 



596 



SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE. 



But how much rests unbreathed, my faithful one ! 
What thou hast been to me ! This bitter world ! 
This cold, unanswering world, that hath no voice 
To greet the gentle spirit, that drives back 
All birds of Eden, which would sojourn here 
A little while — how have I turn'd away 
From its keen, soulless air, and in thy heart 
Found ever the sweet fountain of response 
To quench my thirst for home ! 

The dear work grows 
Beneath my hand, — the last ! 

Teresa, (falling on his neck in tears.) 
Eugene ! Eugene ! 

Break not my heart with thine excess of love ! — 
Oh ! must I lose thee — thou that hast been still 
The tenderest — best ! 

Eugene. Weep, weep not thus, beloved ! 
Let my true heart o'er thine retain its power 
Of soothing to the last ! Mine own Teresa ! 
Take strength from strong affection ! Let our souls, 
Ere this brief parting, mingle in one strain 
Of deep, full thanksgiving, for God's rich boon — 
Our perfect love ! Oh, blessed have we been 
In that high gift ! thousands o'er earth may pass, 
With hearts unfreshen'd by the heavenly dew, 
Which hath kept ours from withering. Kneel, 

true wife ! 
And lay thy hands in mine. 

(She kneels beside the couch — he prays.) 

Oh, thus receive 
Thy children's thanks, Creator ! for the love 
Which thou hast granted, through all earthly woes, 
To spread heaven's peace around them — which 

hath bound 
Their spirits to each other and to thee, 
With links whereon unkindness ne'er hath 

breathed, 
Nor wandering thought. We thank thee, gracious 

God! 
For all its treasured memories, tender cares, 
Fond words, bright, bright sustaining looks, un- 
changed 
Through tears and joy ! Father ! most of all, 
We thank, we bless thee, for the priceless trust, 
Through thy redeeming Son vouchsafed to those 
That love in thee, of union, in thy sight 
And in thy heavens, immortal ! Hear our prayer ! 
Take home our fond affections, purified 
To spirit-radiance from all earthly stain ; 
Exalted, solemnised, made fit to dwell, 
Father ! where all things that are lovely meet, 
And all things that are pure — for evermore 
With thee and thine ! 



A PRAYER OF AFFECTION. 

Blessings, Father ! shower — 
Father of Mercies ! round his precious head ! 
On his lone walks and on his thoughtful hour, 
And the pure visions of his midnight bed, 

Blessings be shed ! 

Father ! I pray thee not 
For earthly treasure to that most beloved — 
Fame, fortune, power : oh ! be his spirit proved 
By these, or by their absence, at thy will ! 
But let thy peace be wedded to his lot, 
Guarding his inner life from touch of ill, 

With its dove-pinion still ! 

Let such a sense of thee, 
Thy watching presence, thy sustaining love, 
His bosom-guest inalienably be, 

That wheresoe'er he move, 

A heavenly light serene 

Upon his heart and mien 
May sit undimm'd ! a gladness rest his own, 
Unspeakable, and to the world unknown ! 
Such as from childhood's morning land of dreams, 

Remember'd faintly, gleams — 
Faintly remember'd, and too swiftly flown ! 

So let him walk with thee, 

Made by thy Spirit free ; 
And when thou call'st him from his mortal place, 
To his last hour be still that sweetness given, 
That joyful trust ! and brightly let him part, 
With lamp clear burning, and unlingering heart, 

Mature to meet in heaven 

His Saviour's face ! 



MOTHER'S LITANY BY THE SICKBED 
OF A CHILD. 

Savioue, that of woman born, 
Mother-sorrow didst not scorn — 
Thou, with whose last anguish strove 
One dear thought of earthly love — 
Hear and aid ! 

Low he lies, my precious child, 
With his spirit wandering wild 
From its gladsome tasks and play, 
And its bright thoughts far away — 
Saviour, aid ! 



SONNETS. 597 


Pain sits heavy on his brow, 




E'en though slumber seal it now ; 


NIGHT HYMN AT SEA. 


Bound his lip is quivering strife. 




In his hand unquiet life — 




Aid ! oh, aid ! 


THE WORDS WRITTEN FOR A MELODY BY FELTON. 


Saviour ! loose the burning chain 


Night sinks on the wave, 


From his fever'd heart and brain, 


Hollow gusts are sighing, 


Give, oh ! give his young soul back 


Sea-birds to their cave 


Into its own cloudless track ! 


Through the gloom are flying. 


Hear and aid ! 


Oh ! should storms come sweeping, 




Thou, in heaven unsleeping, 


Thou that saidst, " Awake ! arise ! " 


O'er thy children vigil keeping, 


E'en when death had quench'd the eyes — 


Hear, hear, and save ! 


In this hour of grief's deep sighing, 




When o'erwearied hope is dying, 


Stars look o'er the sea, 


Hear and aid ! 


Few, and sad, and shrouded ; 




Faith our light must be, 


Yet, oh ! make him thine, all thine, 


When all else is clouded. 


Saviour ! whether Death's or mine ! 


Thou, whose voice came thrilling, 


Yet, oh ! pour on human love, 


Wind and billow stilling, 


Strength, trust, patience, from above ! 


Speak once more ! our prayer fulfilling — 


Hear and aid ! 


Power dwells with thee ! 


SON! 


?ETS. 


FEMALE CHARACTERS OF 


Daughters of Judah ! with the timbrel rise ! 


SCRIPTURE. 


Ye of the dark, prophetic, Eastern eyes, 
Imperial in their visionary fire ; 


" Tour tents are desolate ; your stately steps, 


Oh ! steep my soul in that old, glorious time, 


Of all their choral dances, have not left 


When God's own whisper shook the cedars of your 


One trace beside the fountains : your full cup 
Of gladness and of trembling, each alike 


clime ! 


Is broken. Yet, amidst undyingthings, 




The mind still keeps your loveliness, and ttill 




All the fresh glories of the early world 




Hang round you in the spirit s pictured halls, 




Never to change ! " 


INVOCATION CONTINUED. 


INVOCATION. 






And come, ye faithful ! round Messiah seen, 


As the tired voyager on stormy seas 


With a soft harmony of tears and light 


Invokes the coming of bright birds from shore, 


Streaming through all your spiritual mien — 


To waft him tidings, with the gentler breeze, 


As in calm clouds of pearly stillness bright, 


Of dim, sweet woods that hear no billows roar ; 


Showers weave with sunshine, and transpierce 


So, from the depth of days, when earth yet wore 


their slight 


Her solemn beauty and primeval dew, 


Ethereal cradle. From your heart subdued 


I call you, gracious Forms ! Oh, come ! restore 


All haughty dreams of power had wing'd their 


Awhile that holy freshness, and renew [lyre, 


And left high place for martyr fortitude, [flight, 


Life's morning dreams. Come with the voice, the 


True faith, long-suffering love. Come to me, come ! 



598 



SONNETS. 



And as the seas, beneath your Master's tread, 
Fell into crystal smoothness, round him spread 
Like the clear pavement of his heavenly home ; 
So, in your presence, let the soul's great deep 
Sink to the gentleness of infant sleep. 



THE SONG OF MIRIAM. 

A song for Israel's God ! Spear, crest, and helm 

Lay by the billows of the old Red Sea, 
When Miriam's voice o'er that sepulchral realm 

Sent on the blast a hymn of jubilee. 
With her lit eye, and long hair floating free, 

Queen-like she stood, and glorious was the strain, 
E'en as instinct with the tempestuous glee 

Of the dark waters, tossing o'er the slain. 
A song for God's own victory ! Oh, thy lays, 

Bright poesy ! were holy in their birth : 
How hath it died, thy seraph-note of praise, 

In the bewildering melodies of earth ! 
Return from troubling, bitter founts — return, 
Back to the life-springs of thy native urn ! 



RUTH. 

The plume-like swaying of the auburn corn, 
By soft winds to a dreamy motion fann'd, 

Still brings me back thine image — forlorn, 
Yet not forsaken Ruth ! I see thee stand 
Lone, midst the gladness of the harvest-band — 

Lone, as a wood-bird on the ocean's foam 
Fall'n in its weariness. Thy fatherland 

Smiles far away ! yet to the sense of home — 
That finest, purest, which can recognise 
Home in affection's glance — for ever true 

Beats thy calm heart ; and if thy gentle eyes 
Gleam tremulous through tears, 'tis not to rue 

Those words, immortal in their deep love's tone, 

" Thy people and thy God shall be mine oivn!" 



THE VIGIL OF RIZPAH. 

" And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread 
it for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest until water 
dropped upon them out of heaven ; and suffered neither the birds 
of the air to rest on them by day, nor the beasts of the field by 
night."— 2 Sam. xxi. 10. 

Who watches on the mountain with the dead, 
Alone before the awfulness of night 1 — 



A seer awaiting the deep spirit's might ? 
A warrior guarding some dark pass of dread? 
No — a lorn woman ! On her drooping head, 

Once proudly graceful, heavy beats the rain ; 

She recks not — living for the unburied slain, 
Only to scare the vulture from their bed. 
So, night by night, her vigil hath she kept 
With the pale stars, and with the dews hath wept : 

Oh ! surely some bright Presence from above 
On those wild rocks the lonely one must aid ! 
E'en so ; a strengthener through all storm and 
shade, 

Th' unconquerable angel, mightiest Love ! 



THE REPLY OF THE SHUNAMITE WOMAN. 

" And she answered, I dwell among mine own people." 
2 Kings, iv. 13. 

" I dwell among mine own," — oh, happy thou ! 

Not for the sunny clusters of the vine, 
Not for the olives on the mountain's brow, 
Nor the flocks wandering by the flowery line 
Of streams, that make the green land where 
they shine 
Laugh to the light of waters — not for these, 
Nor the soft shadow of ancestral trees, 

Whose kindly whisper floats o'er thee and thine — 
Oh ! not for these I call thee richly blest, 
But for the meekness of thy woman's breast, 
Where that sweet depth of still contentment lies ; 
And for thy holy, household love, which clings 
Unto all ancient and familiar things, 
Weaving from each some link for home's dear 
charities. 



THE ANNUNCIATION. 

Lowliest of women, and most glorified ! 

In thy still beauty sitting calm and lone, 
A brightness round thee grew — and by thy side, 

Kindling the air, a form ethereal shone, 

Solemn, yet breathing gladness. From herthrone 
A queen had risen with more imperial eye, 
A stately prophetess of victory 

From herproud lyre had struck atempest's tone, 
For such high tidings as to thee were brought, 

Chosen of heaven! that hour : but thou, oh! thou, 
E'en as a flower with gracious rains o'erfraught, 

Thy virgin head beneath its crown didst bow, 
And take to thy meek breast th' all-holy word, 
And own thyself the handmaid of the Lord. 



FEMALE CHAEACTEKS OF SCRIPTURE. 



599 



THE SONG OF THE VIRGIN". 

Yet as a sunburst flushing mountain-snow, 

Fell the celestial touch of fire ere long 
On the pale stillness of thy thoughtful brow, 

And thy calm spirit lighten'd into song. 

Unconsciously, perchance, yet free and strong 
Flow'd the majestic joy of tuneful words, 

Which living harps the choirs of heaven among 
Might well have link'd with their divinest chords. 
Full many a strain, borne far on glory's blast, 
Shall leave, where once its haughty music pass'd, 

No more to memory than a reed's faint sigh ; 
While thine, childlike Virgin ! through all time 
Shall send its fervent breath o'er every clime, 

Being of God, and therefore not to die. 



THE PENITENT ANOINTING CHRIST'S 
FEET. 

There was a mournfulness in angel eyes, 

That saw thee, woman ! bright in this world's train, 
Moving to pleasure's airy melodies, 

Thyself the idol of the enchanted strain. 

But from thy beauty's garland, brief and vain, 
When one by one the rose-leaves had been torn ; 

When thy heart's core had quiver'd to the pain 
Through every life-nerve sent by arrowy scorn ; 
When thou didst kneel to pour sweet odours forth 

On the Redeemer's feet, with many a sigh, 
And showering tear-drop, of yet richer worth 

Than all those costly balms of Araby ; 
Then was there joy, a song of joy in heaven, 
For thee, the child wonback, the penitent forgiven ! 



MARY AT THE FEET OF CHRIST. 

Oh ! bless'd beyond all daughters of the earth ! 
What were the Orient's thrones to that low seat 

Where thy hush'd spirit drew celestial birth, 
Mary ! meek listener at the Saviour's feet ] 
No feverish cares to that divine retreat 

Thy woman's heart of silent worship brought, 
But a fresh childhood, heavenly truth to meet 

With love, and wonder, and submissive thought. 

Oh ! for the holy quiet of thy breast, 

Midst the world's eager tones and footsteps flying, 
Thou, whose calm soul was like a wellspring, lying 

So deep and still in its transparent rest, 



That e'en when noontide burns upon the hills, 
Some one bright solemn star all its lone mirror fills. 



THE SISTERS OF BETHANY AFTER THE 
DEATH OF LAZARUS. 

One grief, one faith, sisters of the dead ! 

Was in your bosoms — thou, whose steps, made 
fleet 
By keen hope fluttering in the heart which bled, 

Bore thee, as wings, the Lord of Life to greet ; 

And thou, that duteous in thy still retreat 
Didst wait his summons, then with reverent love 

Fall weeping at the bless'd Deliverer's feet, 
Whom e'en to heavenly tears thy woe could move. 
And which to Him, the All-seeing and All-just, 
Was loveliest — that quick zeal, or lowly trust 1 
Oh ! question not, and let no law be given 

To those unveilings of its deepest shrine, 

By the wrung spirit made in outward sign : 
Free service from the heart is all in all to heaven. 



THE MEMORIAL OF MARY. 



*' Verily I say unto you, wheresoever this gospel shall be preached 
in the whole world, there shall also this that this woman hath 
done, be told for a memorial of her."— Matthew, xxvi. 13.— See 
also John, xii. 3. 



Thou hast thy record in the monarch's hall, 

And on the waters of the far mid sea ; 
And where the mighty mountain-shadows fall, 
The Alpine hamlet keeps a thought of thee : 
Where'er, beneath some Oriental tree, 
The Christian traveller rests — where'er the child 
Looks upward from the English mother's knee, 
With earnest eyes in wondering reverence mild, 
There art thou known — where'er the Book of light 
Bears hope and healing, there, beyond all blight, 

Is borne thy memory, and all praise above. 
Oh ! say what deed so lifted thy sweet name, 
Mary ! to that pure, silent place of fame 1 
One lowly offering of exceeding love. 



THE WOMEN OF JERUSALEM AT THE 
CROSS. 

Like those pale stars of tempest-hours, whose gleam 
Waves calm and constant on the rocking mast, 



600 



SONNETS, 



Such by the cross doth your bright lingering seem, 

Daughters of Zion ! faithful to the last ! 

Ye, through the darkness o'er the wide earth cast 
By the death-cloud within the Saviour's eye, 

E'en till away the heavenly spirit pass'd, 
Stood in the shadow of his agony. 
blessed faith ! a guiding lamp, that hour 
Was lit for woman's heart ! To her, whose dower 

Is all of love and suffering from her birth, 
Still hath your act a voice — through fear, through 
Bidding her bind each tendril of her life [strife, 

To that which her deep soul hath proved of 
holiest worth. 



MARY MAGDALENE AT THE SEPULCHRE. 

Weeper ! to thee how bright a morn was given 

After thy long, long vigil of despair, 
When that high voice which burial-rocks had riven 

Thrill'd with immortal tones the silent air ! 

Never did clarion's royal blast declare 
Such tale of victory to a breathless crowd, 

As the deep sweetness of one word could bear 
Into thy heart of hearts, woman ! bow'd 
By strong affection's anguish ! one low word — 

"Mary/" and all the triumph wrung from death 
Was thus reveal'd; and thou, that so hadst err'd, 

So wept, and been forgiven, in trembling faith 
Didst cast thee down before the all-conquering Son, 
Awed by the mighty gift thy tears and love had 



MARY MAGDALENE BEARING TIDINGS 
OF THE RESURRECTION. 

Then was a task of glory all thine own, 

Nobler than e'er the still, small voice assign'd 
To lips in awful music making known 

The stormy splendours of some prophet's mind. 

" Christ is arisen ! " — by thee, to wake mankind, 
First from the sepulchre those words were brought ! 

Thou wert to send the mighty rushing wind 

First on its way, with those high tidings fraught — 

" Christ is arisen /" Thou, thou, the sin-enthrall'd ! 

Earth's outcast, heaven's own ransom'd one, wert 

call'd 

In human hearts to give that rapture birth : 
Oh raised from shame to brightness ! there doth lie 
The tenderest meaning of His ministry, 

Whose undespairing love still own'd the spirit's 
worth. 



SONNETS, 
DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL. 

THE SACRED HARP. 

How shall the harp of poesy regain 

That old victorious tone of prophet-years — 
A spell divine o'er guilt's perturbing fears, 

And all the hovering shadows of the brain ? 

Dark, evil wings took flight before the strain, 
And showers of holy quiet, with its fall, 
Sank on the soul. Oh ! who may now recall 

The mighty music's consecrated reign ? 

Spirit of God ! whose glory once o'erhung 
A throne, the ark's dread cherubim between, 
So let thy presence brood, though now unseen, 

O'er those two powers by whom the harp is strung, 

Feeling and Thought ! till the rekindled chords 

Give the long-buried tone back to immortal words. 



TO A FAMILY BD3LE. 

What household thoughts around thee, as their 
shrine, 

Cling reverently ? Of anxious looks beguiled, 
My mother's eyes upon thy page divine 

Each day were bent — her accents, gravely mild, 

Breathed out thy lore : whilst I, a dreamy child, 
Wander'd on breeze-like fancies oft away, 

To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild, 
Some fresh-discover'd nook for woodland play, 
Some secret nest. Yet would the solemn Word, 
At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard, 

Fall on thy waken'd spirit, there to be 
A seed not lost, — for which, in darker years, 
Book of Heaven ! I pour, with grateful tears, 

Heart-blessings on the holy dead and thee ! 



REPOSE OF A HOLY FAMILY. 

FROM AN OLD ITALIAN PICTURE. 

Under a palm-tree, by the green, old Nile, 
Lull'd on his mother's breast, the fair child lies, 

With dove-like breathings, and a tender smile 
Brooding above the slumber of his eyes ; 

While, through the stillness of the burning skies, 
Lo ! the dread works of Egypt's buried kings, 






DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL. 



601 



Temple and pyramid, beyond him rise, 

Regal and still as everlasting things. [cheek, 

Vain pomps ! from him, with that pure, flowery 
Soft shadow'd by his mother's drooping head, 

A new-born spirit, mighty, and yet meek, 

O'er the whole world like vernal air shall spread; 

And bid all earthly grandeurs cast the crown, 

Before the suffering and the lowly, down. 



PICTURE OF THE INFANT CHRIST WITH 
FLOWERS. 

All the bright hues from eastern garlands glowing, 

Round the young child luxuriantly are spread; 
Gifts, fairer far than Magian kings, bestowing 

In adoration, o'er his cradle shed. 

Roses, deep-fill'd with rich midsummer's red, 
Circle his hands : but, in his grave, sweet eye, 
Thought seems e'en now to wake, and prophesy 

Of ruder coronals for that meek head. 
And thus it was ! a diadem of thorn 

Earth gave to Him who mantled her with flowers ; 

To Him who pour'd forth blessings in soft 
showers 
O'er all her paths, a cup of bitter scorn ! 
And we repine, for whom that cup He took, 
O'er blooms that mock'd our hope, o'er idols that 
forsook ! 



ON A REMEMBERED PICTURE OF CHRIST. 

AN ECCE HOMO, BY LEONARDO DA VINCI. 

I met that image on a mirthful day 

Of youth ; and, sinking with a still'd surprise, 

The pride of life, before those holy eyes, 
In my quick heart died thoughtfully away, 
Abash'd to mute confession of a sway 

Awful, though meek. And now that, from the 
strings 

Of my soul's lyre, the tempest's mighty wings 
Have struck forth tones which then unwaken'd lay; 
Now that, around the deep life of my mind, 
Affections, deathless as itself, have twined, 

Oft does the pale, bright vision still float by ; 
But more divinely sweet, and speaking now 
Of One whose pity, throned on that sad brow, 

Sounded all depths of love, grief, death, huma- 
nity ! 



THE CHILDREN WHOM JESUS BLESSED. 

Happy were they, the mothers, in whose sight 
Ye grew, fair children ! hallow'd from that hour 
By your Lord's blessing. Surely thence a shower 

Of heavenly beauty, a transmitted light 

Hung on your brows and eyelids, meekly bright, 
Through all the after years, which saw ye move 

Lowly, yet still majestic, in the might, 
The conscious glory of the Saviour's love ! 

And honour'd be all childhood, for the sake 
Of that high love ! Let reverential care 

Watch to behold the immortal spirit wake, 
And shield its first bloom from unholy air ; 

Owning, in each young suppliant glance, the sign 

Of claims upon a heritage divine. 



MOUNTAIN SANCTUARIES. 

" He went up to a mountain apart to pray." 

A child midst ancient mountains I have stood, 
Where the wild falcons make their lordly nest 

On high. The spirit of the solitude 
Fell solemnly upon my infant breast, 

Though then I pray'd not; but deep thoughts have 
press'd 
Into my being since it breathed that air, 

Nor could I now one moment live the guest 
Of such dread scenes, without the springs of 
prayer 

O'erflowing all my soul. No minsters rise 

Like them in pure communion with the skies, 

Vast, silent, open unto night and day ; 

So might the o'erburden'd Son of Man have felt, 
When, turning where inviolate stillness dwelt, 

He sought high mountains, there apart to pray. 



THE LILIES OF THE FIELD. 

"Consider the lilies of the field. " 

Flowers ! when the Saviour's calm, benignant eye 
Fell on your gentle beauty — when from you 
That heavenly lesson for all hearts he drew, 

Eternal, universal, as the sky — 

Then, in the bosom of your purity, 
A voice He set, as in a temple-shrine, 

That life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by 
Unwarn'd of that sweet oracle divine. 



602 



SONNETS. 



And though too oft its low, celestial sound 
By the harsh notes of work-day Care is drown'd, 
And the loud steps of vain, unlistening Haste, 
Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power 
Mightier to reach the soul, in thought's hush'd 
hour, 
Than yours, ye Lilies ! chosen thus and graced ! 



THE BIRDS OF THE AIR. 

" And behold the birds of the air." 

Ye too, the free and fearless birds of air, 

Were charged that hour, on missionary wing, 
The same bright lesson o'er the seas to bear, 

Heaven-guided wanderers, with the winds of 
Sing on, before the storm and after, sing! [spring. 

And call us to your echoing woods away 
From worldly cares ; and bid our spirits bring 

Faith to imbibe deep wisdom from your lay. 
So may those blessed vernal strains renew 
Childhood, a childhood yet more pure and true 

E'en than the first, within th' awaken'd mind ; 
While sweetly, joyously, they tell of life, 
That knows no doubts, no questionings, no strife, 

But hangs upon its God, unconsciously resign'd. 



THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW'S SON. 

" And he that was dead sat up and began to speak." 

He that was dead rose up and spoJce — He spoke ! 

Was it of that majestic world unknown ] [broke, 
Those words, which first the bier's dread silence 

Came they with revelation in each tone ? 
Were the far cities of the nations gone, 

The solemn halls of consciousness or sleep, 
For man uncurtain'd by that spirit lone, 

Back from their portal summon'd o'er the deep 1 ? 

Be hush'd, my soul ! the veil of darkness lay 
Still drawn : thy Lord call'd back the voice departed 
To spread his truth, to comfort his weak-hearted, 

Not to reveal the mysteries of its way. 
Oh ! take that lesson home in silent faith, 
Put on submissive strength to meet, not 
death ! 



THE OLIVE TREE. 

The palm — the vine — the cedar — each hath power 
To bid fair Oriental shapes glance by ; 



And each quick glistening of the laurel bower 

Wafts Grecian images o'er fancy's eye. 

But thou, pale Olive ! in thy branches lie 
Far deeper spells than prophet-grove of old 

Might e'er enshrine : I could not hear the sigh 
To the wind's faintest whisper, nor behold 
One shiver of thy leaves' dim, silvery green, 
Without high thoughts and solemn, of that scene 

When, in the garden, the Redeemer pray'd — 
When pale stars look'd upon his fainting head, 
And angels, ministering in silent dread, 

Trembled, perchance, within thy trembling 
shade. 



THE DARKNESS OF THE CRUCIFIXION. 

On Judah's hills a weight of darkness hung, 
Felt shudderingly at noon : the land had driven 
A Guest divine back to the gates of heaven — 

A life, whence all pure founts of healing sprung, 

All grace, all truth. And when, to anguish wrung, 
From the sharp cross th' enlightening spirit fled, 
O'er the forsaken earth a pall of dread 

By the great shadow of that death was flung. 

Saviour ! Atoner ! — thou that fain 

Wouldst make thy temple in each human heart, 

Leave not such darkness in my soul to reign ; 
Ne'er may thy presence from its depths depart, 

Chased thence by guilt ! Oh ! turn not thou away, 

The bright and Morning Star, my guide to perfect 
day! 



PLACES OF WORSHIP. 

"God is a spirit." 

Spirit ! whose life-sustaining presence fills 
Air, ocean, central depths by man untried, 
Thou for thy worshippers hast sanctified 

All place, all time ! The silence of the hills 

Breathes veneration, — founts and choral rills 
Of thee are murmuring, — to its inmost glade 

The living forest with thy whisper thrills, 
And there is holiness in every shade. 

Yet must the thoughtful soul of man invest 
With dearer consecration those pure fanes, 

Which, sever'd from all sound of earth's unrest, 
Hear naught but suppliant or adoring strains 

Rise heavenward. Ne'er may rock or cave possess 

Tlieir claim on human hearts to solemn tenderness. 



DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL. 



603 



OLD CHURCH IN AN ENGLISH PARK. 



Crowning a flowery slope, it stood alone 
In gracious sanctity. A bright rill wound, 
Caressingly, about the holy ground ; 
And warbled, with a never-dying tone, 
Amidst the tombs. A hue of ages gone 

Seem'd, from that ivied porch, that solemn gleam 

Of tower and cross, pale-quivering on the stream, 

O'er all th' ancestral woodlands to be thrown — 

And something yet more deep. The air was fraught 

With noble memories, whispering many a thought 

Of England's fathers : loftily serene, 
They that had toil'd, watch' d, struggled, to secure, 
Within such fabrics, worship free and pure, 
Reign'd there, the o'ershadowing spirit of the 



A CHURCH IN NORTH WALES. 2 

Blessings be round it still ! that gleaming fane, 
Low in its mountain-glen ! Old, mossy trees 

Mellow the sunshine through the untinted pane ; 
And oft, borne in upon some fitful breeze, 
The deep sound of the ever-pealing seas, 

Filling the hollows with its anthem-tone, 

There meets the voice of psalms ! Yet not alone 

For memories lulling to the heart as these, 

I bless thee, midst thy rocks, gray house of prayer ! 

But for their sakes who unto thee repair 
From the hill-cabins and the ocean-shore. 

Oh ! may the fisher and the mountaineer 

Words to sustain earth's toiling children hear, 
Within thy lowly walls, for evermore I 



1 Fawsley Park, near Daventry. 

2 That of Aber, near Bangor. 



LOUISE SCHEPLER. 

[Louise Schepler was the faithful servant and friend of the 
pastor Oberlin. The last letter addressed by him to his 
children for their perusal after his decease, affectingly com- 
memorates her unwearied zeal in visiting and instructing the 
children of the mountain hamlets, through all seasons, and 
in all circumstances of difficulty and danger.] 

A fearless journeyer o'er the mountain-snow 

Wert thou, Louise ! The sun's decaying light 
Oft, with its latest, melancholy glow, 

Redden'd thy steep, wild way : the starry night 
Oft met thee, crossing some lone eagle's height, 
Piercing some dark ravine : and many a dell 
Knew, through its ancient rock-recesses well, 
Thy gentle presence, which hath made them 

bright 
Oft in mid-storms — oh ! not with beauty's eye, 
Nor the proud glance of genius keenly burning; 

No ! pilgrim of unwearying charity ! 
Thy spell was love — the mountain-deserts turning 
To blessed realms, where stream and rock rejoice 
When the glad human soul lifts a thanksgiving 



TO THE SAME. 

For thou, a holy shepherdess and kind, 

Through the pine forests, by the upland rills, 
Didst roam to seek the children of the hills, 
A wild, neglected flock ! to seek, and find, 
And meekly win ! there feeding each young mind 
With balms of heavenly eloquence : not thine, 
Daughter of Christ ! but His, whose love divine 
Its own clear spirit in thy breast had shrined, 
A burning light ! Oh ! beautiful, in truth, 
Upon the mountains are the feet of those 
Who bear His tidings ! From thy morn of youth, 
For this were all thy journeyings ; and the close 
Of that long path, heaven's own bright sabbath-rest, 
Must wait thee, wanderer! on thy Saviour's breast. 



604 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


THE TWO MONUMENTS. 1 


Where a low and pale memorial-stone 




By the couch of glory lay. 


" Oh ! bless'd are they who live and die like ' him,' 




Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourn'd !" 


Few were the fond words chisell'd there, 


Wordsworth. 


Mourning for parted worth ; 




But the very heart of love and prayer 


Banners hung drooping from on high 


Had given their sweetness forth. 


In a dim cathedral's nave, 




Making a gorgeous canopy 


They spoke of one whose life had been 


O'er a noble, noble grave ! 


As a hidden streamlet's course, 




Bearing on health and joy unseen 


And a marble warrior's form beneath, 


From its clear mountain-source : 


With helm and crest array'd, 




As on his battle-bed of death, 


Whose young, pure memory, lying deep 


Lay in their crimson shade. 


Midst rock, and wood, and hill, 




Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep, 2 


Triumph yet linger'd in his eye, 


A soft light, meek and still : 


Ere by the dark night seal'd ; 




And his head was pillow'd haughtily 


Whose gentle voice, too early call'd 


On standard and on shield. 


Unto Music's land away, 




Had won for God the earth's, enthrall'd 


And shadowing that proud trophy -pile, 


By words of silvery sway. 


With the glory of his wing, 




An eagle sat — yet seem'd the while 


These were his victories — yet, enroll'd 


Panting through heaven to spring. 


In no high song of fame, 




The pastor of the mountain-fold 


He sat upon a shiver'd lance, 


Left but to heaven his name. 


There by the sculptor bound ; 




But in the light of his lifted glance 


To heaven, and to the peasant's hearth, 


Was that which scorn'd the ground. 


A blessed household-sound ; 




And finding lowly love on earth, 


And a burning flood of gem-like hues, 


Enough, enough, he found ! 


From a storied window pour'd, 




There fell, there centred, to suffuse 


Bright and more bright before me gleam'd 


The conqueror and his sword. 


That sainted image still, 




Till one sweet moonlight memory seem'd 


A flood of hues — but one rich dye 


The regal fane to fill. 


O'er all supremely spread, 




With a purple robe of royalty 


Oh ! how my silent spirit turn'd 


Mantling the mighty dead. 


From those proud trophies nigh ! 




How my full heart within me burn'd 


Meet was that robe for him whose name 


Like Him to live and die ! 


Was a trumpet-note in war, 




His pathway still the march of fame, 





His eye the battle-star. 


THE COTTAGE GIRL. 


But faintly, tenderly was thrown, 


A child beside a hamlet's fount at play, 


From the colour'd light, one ray, 


Her fair face laughing at the sunny day ; 


1 Suggested by a passage in Captain Sherer's " Notes and 


2 " Love had he seen in huts where poor men lie." 


Reflections during a Ramble in Germany." 


Wordsworth. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



605 



A gush of waters tremulously bright, 
Kindling the air to gladness with their light ; 
And a soft gloom beyond of summer trees, 
Darkening the turf ; and, shadow'd o'er by these, 
A low, dim, woodland cottage — this was all ! 
What had the scene for memory to recall 
"With a fond look of love 1 What secret spell 
With the heart's pictures made its image dwell ] 

What but the spirit of the joyous child, 

That freshly forth o'er stream and verdure smiled, 

Casting upon the common things of earth 

A brightness, born and gone with infant mirth ! 



THE BATTLE-FIELD. 

I look'd on the field where the battle was spread, 
When thousands stood forth in their glancing array ; 
And the beam from the steel of the valiant was shed 
Through the dun-rolling clouds that o'ershadow'd 
the fray. 

I saw the dark forest of lances appear, 
As the ears of the harvest unnumber'd they stood; 
I heard the stern shout as the foemen drew near, 
Like the storm that lays low the proud pines of 
the wood. 

Afar the harsh notes of the war-drum were roll'd, 
Uprousing the wolf from the depth of his lair ; 
On high to the gust stream'd the banner's red fold, 
O'er the death-close of hate, and the scowl of 
despair. 

I look'd on the field of contention again, [past ; 
When the sabre was sheath'd and the tempest had 
The wild weed and thistle grew rank on the plain, 
And the fern softly sigh'd in the low, wailing blast. 

Unmoved lay the lake in its hour of repose, 
And bright shone the stars through the sky's 

deepen'd blue ; 
And sweetly the song of the night-bird arose, 
Where the fox-glove lay gemm'd with its pearl- 
drops of dew. 

But where swept the ranks of that dark, frowning 

host, 
As the ocean in might, as the storm-cloud in speed 1 ? 
Where now are the thunders of victory's boast — 
The slayer's dread wrath, and the strength of the 

steed? 



Not a time- wasted cross, not a mouldering stone, 
To mark the lone scene of their shame or their 

pride ; 
One grass-cover'd mound told the traveller alone 
Where thousands lay down in their anguish, and 

died ! 

Glory ! behold thy famed guerdon's extent : 
For this, toil thy slaves through their earth-wast- 
ing lot — [spent ; 
A name like the mist, when the night-beams are 
A grave with its tenants unwept and forgot ! 



A PENITENT'S RETURN. 



Can guilt or misery ever enter here ? 
Ah, no ! the spirit of domestic peace, 
Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove, 
And ever murmuring forth a quiet song, 
Guards, powerful as the sword of cherubim, 
The hallow'd porch. She hath a heavenly smile, 
That sinks into the sullen soul of Vice, 
And wins him o'er to virtue." — Wilson. 



My father's house once more, 
In its own moonlight beauty ! Yet around, 
Something, amidst the dewy calm profound, 
Broods, never mark'd before ! 

Is it the brooding night 1 
Is it the shivery creeping on the air, 
That makes the home so tranquil and so fair, 

O'erwhelming to my sight ] 

All solemnised it seems, 
And still' d, and darken'd in each time-worm hue, 
Since the rich, clustering roses met my view, 

As now, by starry gleams. 

And this high elm, where last 
I stood and linger' d — where my sisters made 
Our mother's bower — I deem'd not that it cast 

So far and dark a shade ! 

How spirit-like a tone 
Sighs through yon tree ! My father's place was there 
At evening hours, while soft winds waved his hair ! 

Now those gray locks are gone ! 

My soul grows faint with fear ! 
Even as if angel-steps had mark'd the sod. 
I tremble where I move — the voice of God 

Is in the foliage here ! 



606 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Is it indeed the night 
That makes my home so awful? Faithless-hearted! 
Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed 

The inborn, gladdening light ! 

No outward thing is changed ; 
Only the joy of purity is fled, 
And, long from nature's melodies estranged, 

Thou hear'st their tones with dread. 

Therefore the calm abode, 
By thy dark spirit, is o'erhung with shade ; 
And therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God 

Makes thy sick heart afraid! 

The night-flowers round that door 
Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air ; 
Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more 

To pass, and rest thee there. 

And must I turn away 1 — 
Hark, hark ! — it is my mother's voice I hear — 
Sadder than once it seem'd — yet soft and clear ; — 

Doth she not seem to pray 1 

My name ! — I caught the sound ! 
Oh ! blessed tone of love — the deep, the mild ! 
Mother ! my mother ! now receive thy child : 

Take back the lost and found ! 



A THOUGHT OF PARADISE. 

" We receive but what we give, 
And in our life alone does nature live ; 
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud; 
And, would we aught behold of higher worth 
Than that inanimate, cold world allow'd 
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd. 
Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth 
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud, 

Enveloping the earth; 
And from the soul itself must there be sent 
A sweet and potent voice of its own birth, 
Of all sweet sounds the life and element." — Co: 



Green spot of holy ground ! 

If thou couldst yet be found, 
Far in deep woods, with all thy starry flowers : 

If not one sullying breath 

Of time, or change, or death, 
Had touch'd the vernal glory of thy bowers ; 

Might our tired pilgrim-feet, 

Worn by the desert's heat, 
On the bright freshness of thy turf repose 1 

Might our eyes wander there 

Through heaven's transparent air, 
And rest on colours of the immortal rose 1 



Say, would thy balmy skies 

And fountain-melodies 
Our heritage of lost delight restore 1 

Could thy soft honey-dews 

Through all our veins diffuse 
The early, child-like, trustful sleep once more ] 

And might we, in the shade 

By thy tall cedars made, 
With angel-voices high communion hold ? 

Would their sweet, solemn tone 

Give back the music gone, 
Our Being's harmony, so jarr'd of old] 

Oh no ! — thy sunny hours 

Might come with blossom-showers, 
All thy young leaves to spirit-lyres might thrill ; 

But we — should we not bring 

Into thy realms of spring 
The shadows of our souls to haunt us still 1 ? 

What could thy flowers and airs 

Do for our earth-born cares 1 
Would the world's chain melt off and leave us free 1 

No ! — past each living stream, 

Still would some fever- dream 
Track the lorn wanderers, meet no more for thee! 

Should we not shrink with fear 

If angel-steps were near, 
Feeling our burden'd souls within us die ] 

How might our passions brook 

The still and searching look, 
The starlike glance of seraph purity 1 

Thy golden-fruited grove 

Was not for pining love ; 
Vain sadness would but dim thy crystal skies ! 

Oh ! thou wert but a part 

Of what man's exiled heart 
Hath lost — the dower of inborn Paradise ! 



LET US DEPART ! 

[It is mentioned by Josephus, that, a short time previous 
to the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans, the priests, 
going by night into the inner court of the Temple to perform 
their sacred ministrations at the feast of Pentecost, felt a 
quaking, and heard a rushing noise, and, after that, a sound 
as of a great multitude saying, " Let us depart hence ! "] 

Night hung on Salem's towers, 
And a brooding hush profound 



• MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 607 


Lay where the Roman eagle shone 


And that fearful sound was heard 


High o'er the tents around — 


At the Temple's thrilling heart, 




As if mighty wings rush'd by, 


The tents that rose by thousands, 


And a dread voice raised the cry, 


In the moonlight glimmering pale ; 


"Let us depart.'" 


Like white waves of a frozen sea 




Filling an Alpine vale. 





And the Temple's massy shadow 


ON A PICTURE OF CHRIST BEARING 


Fell broad, and dark, and still, 


THE CROSS. 


In peace — as if the Holy One 




Yet watch'd his chosen hill. 


PAINTED BY VELASQUEZ. 1 


But a fearful sound was heard 


By the dark stillness brooding in the sky, 


In that old fane's deepest heart, 


Holiest of sufferers ! round thy path of woe, 


As if mighty wings rush'd by, 


And by the weight of mortal agony 


And a dread voice raised the cry, 


Laid on thy drooping form and pale meek brow, 


"Let us depart/" 


My heart was awed : the burden of thy pain 




Sank on me with a mystery and a chain. 


"Within the fated city 




E'en then fierce discord raved, 


I look'd once more — and, as the virtue shed 


Though o'er night's heaven the comet-sword 


Forth from thy robe of old, so fell a ray 


Its vengeful token waved. 


Of victory from thy mien ; and round thy head, 




The halo, melting spirit-like away, 


There were shouts of kindred warfare 


Seem'd of the very soul's bright rising born, 


Through the dark streets ringing high, 


To glorify all sorrow, shame, and scorn. 


Though every sign was full which told 




Of the bloody vintage nigh ; 


And upwards, through transparent darkness 




gleaming, 


Though the wild red spears and arrows 


Gazed in mute reverence woman's earnest eye, 


Of many a meteor host 


Lit, as a vase whence inward light is streaming, 


Went flashing o'er the holy stars, 


With quenchless faith, and deep love's fervency, 


In the sky now seen, now lost. 


Gathering, like incense round some dim-veil'd 




shrine, 


And that fearful sound was heard 


About the form, so mournfully divine ! 


In the Temple's deepest heart, 




As if mighty wings rush'd by, 


Oh ! let thine image, as e'en then it rose, 


And a voice cried mournfully, 


Live in my soul for ever, calm and clear, 


"Let us depart J" 


Making itself a temple of repose, 




Beyond the breath of human hope or fear ! 


But within the fated city 


A holy place, where through all storms may lie 


There was revelry that night — 


One living beam of dayspring from on high. 


The wine-cup and the timbrel note, 




And the blaze of banquet-light. 





The footsteps of the dancer 


COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT. 


Went bounding through the hall, 




And the music of the dulcimer 
Summon'd to festival : 


" Could we but keep our spirits to that height, 
We might be happy ; but this clay will sink 
Its spark immortal."— Byron. 


While the clash of brother- weapons 


Return, my thoughts — come home ! 


Made lightning in the air, 


Ye wild and wing'd ! what do ye o'er the deep ? 


And the dying at the palace gates 
Lay down in their despair ; 


1 This picture is in the possession of the Viscount Harber- 
ton, Merrion Square, Dublin. 



608 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And wherefore thus the abyss of time o'ersweep, 
As birds the ocean-foam 1 

Swifter than shooting- star, 
Swifter than lances of the northern-light, 
Upspringing through the purple heaven of night, 

Hath been your course afar ! 

Through the bright battle-clime, 
Where laurel boughs make dim the Grecian streams, 
And reeds are whispering of heroic themes, 

By temples of old time : 

Through the north's ancient halls, 
Where banners thrill'd of yore — where harp- 
strings rung ; 
But grass waves now o'er those that fought and 

Hearth-light hath left their walls ! Lsung, 

Through forests old and dim, 
Where o'er the leaves dread magic seems to brood; 
And sometimes on the haunted solitude 

Kises the pilgrim's hymn : 

Or where some fountain lies, [ing! 

With lotus-cups through orient spice-woods gleam- 
There have ye been, ye wanderers ! idly dreaming 

Of man's lost paradise ! 

Return, my thoughts — return ! 
Cares wait your presence in life's daily track, 
And voices, not of music, call you back- 
Harsh voices, cold and stern ! 

Oh, no ! return ye not ! 
Still farther, loftier, let your soarings be ! 
Go, bring me strength from journeyings bright 
and free, 

O'er many a haunted spot. 

Go ! seek the martyr's grave, 
Midst the old mountains, and the deserts vast ; 
Or, through the ruin'd cities of the past, 

Follow the wise and brave ! 

Go ! visit cell and shrine, 
Where woman hath endured ! — thro' wrong, thro' 
Uncheer'd by fame, yet silently upborne [scorn, 

By promptings more divine ! 

Go, shoot the gulf of death ! 
Track the pure spirit where no chain can bind, 
Where the heart's boundless love its rest may find, 

Where the storm sends no breath ! 



Higher, and yet more high ! 
Shake off the cumbering chain which earth would 

lay 
On your victorious wings — mount, mount ! Your 

Is through eternity ! [way 



THE WATER-LILY. 



' The Water-Lilie9, that are serene in the calm clear water, but 

o less serene among the black and scowling waves."— Lights and 

Shadows of Scottish Life. 



Oh ! beautiful thou art, 
Thou sculpture-like and stately river-queen ! 
Crowning the depths, as with the light serene 

Of a pure heart. 

Bright lily of the wave ! 
Rising in fearless grace with every swell, 
Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave 

Dwelt in thy cell : 

Lifting alike thy head 
Of placid beauty, feminine yet free, 
Whether with foam or pictured azure spread 

The waters be. 

What is like thee, fair flower, 
The gentle and the firm ! thus bearing up 
To the blue sky that alabaster cup, 

As to the shower 1 

Oh ! love is most like thee, 
The love of woman ! quivering to the blast 
Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast, 

Midst life's dark sea. 

And faith — oh, is not faith 
Like thee, too, lily ! springing into light, 
Still buoyantly, above the billows' might, 

Through the storm's breath 1 

Yes ! link'd with such high thought, 
Flower ! let thine image in my bosom lie ; 
Till something there of its own purity 

And peace be wrought — 

Something yet more divine 
Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed 
Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed, 

As from a shrine. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 609 


THE SONG OF PENITENCE. 1 


TEOUBADOUR SONG. 


UNFINISHED. 






They rear'd no trophy o'er his grave, 


[We learn from the Rev. R. P. Graves, that " The Song of 


They bade no requiem flow ; 
What left they there to tell the brave 


Penitence," if it had been finished in time, was intended 
for insertion among the " Scenes and Hymns of Life."] 




That a warrior sleeps below 1 


He pass'd from earth 




Without his fame, — the calm, pure, starry fame 


A shiver'd spear, a cloven shield, 


He might have won, to guide on radiantly 


A helm with its white plume torn, 


Full many a noble soul, — he sought it not ; 


And a blood-stain'd turf on the fatal field, 


And e'en like brief and barren lightning pass'd 


Where a chief to his rest was borne. 


The wayward child of genius. And the songs 




Which his wild spirit, in the pride of life, 


He lies not where his fathers sleep, 


Had shower'd forth recklessly, as ocean-waves 


But who hath a tomb more proud 1 


Fling up their treasures mingled with dark weed, 


For the Syrian wilds his record keep, 


They died before him ; — they were winged seed 


And a banner is his shroud. 


Scatter'd afar, and, falling on the rock 




Of the world's heart, had perish'd. One alone, 




One fervent, mournful, supplicating strain, 




The deep beseeching of a stricken breast, 
Survived the vainly-gifted. In the souls 


THE ENGLISH BOY. 


Of the kind few that loved him, with a love 


" Go, call thy sons ; instruct them what a debt 


Faithful to even its disappointed hope, 


They owe their ancestors ; and make them swear 


That song of tears found root, and by their hearths 


To pay it, by transmitting down entire 

Those sacred rights to which themselves were born." 


Full oft, in low and reverential tones, 


Akbssidr. 


Fill'd with the piety of tenderness, 




Is murmur'd to their children, when his name 


Look from the ancient mountains down, 


On some faint harp-string of remembrance falls, 


My noble English boy ! 


Far from the world's rude voices, far away. 


Thy country's fields around thee gleam 


Oh ! hear, and judge him gently ; 'twas his last. 


In sunlight and in joy. 


I come alone, and faint I come — 


Ages have roll'd since foeman's march 


To nature's arms I flee ; 


Pass'd o'er that old, firm sod ; 


The green woods take their wanderer home, 


For well the land hath fealty held 


But Thou, Father ! may I turn to thee 1 


To freedom and to God ! 


The earliest odour of the flower, 


Gaze proudly on, my English boy ! 


The bird's first song is thine ; 


And let thy kindling mind 


Father in heaven ! my dayspring's hour 


Drink in the spirit of high thought 


Pour'd its vain incense on another shrine. 


From every chainless wind ! 


Therefore my childhood's once-loved scene 


There, in the shadow of old Time, 


Around me faded lies ; 


The halls beneath thee he 


Therefore, remembering what hath been, 


Which pour'd forth to the fields of yore 


I ask, is this mine early paradise 1 


Our England's chivalry. 


It is, it is — but Thou art gone ; 


How bravely and how solemnly 


Or if the trembling shade 


They stand, midst oak and yew ! 


Breathe yet of thee, with alter'd tone 


Whence Cressy's yeomen haply framed 


Thy solemn whisper shakes a heart dismay'd. 


The bow, in battle true. 


1 Suggested by the late Mrs Fletcher's story of The Lost 


And round their walls the good swords hang 


Life, published in the Amulet for 1830. 


Whose faith knew no alloy, 



610 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 


And shields of knighthood, pure from stain : 


Up that blue and silent deep, 


Gaze on, my English boy ! 


Where, like things of sculptured sleep, 




Alabaster clouds repose, 


Gaze where the hamlet's ivied church 


"With the sunshine on their snows 1 


Gleams by the antique elm, 


Thither was thy heart's love turning, 


Or where the minster lifts the cross 


Like a censer ever burning, 


High through the air's blue realm. 


Till the purple heavens in thee 




Set their smile, Anemone 1 


Martyrs have shower'd their free heart's blood 




That England's prayer might rise, 


Or can those warm tints be caught 


From those gray fanes of thoughtful years, 


Each from some quick glow of thought ? 


Unfetter'd, to the skies. 


So much of bright soul there seems 




In thy bendings and thy gleams, 


Along their aisles, beneath their trees, 


So much thy sweet life resembles 


This earth's most glorious dust, 


That which feels, and weeps, and trembles, 


Once fired with valour, wisdom, song, 


I could deem thee spirit-fill'd, 


Is laid in holy trust. 


As a reed by music thrill'd, 




When thy being I behold 


Gaze on — gaze farther, farther yet — 


To each loving breath unfold, 


My gallant English boy ! 


Or, like woman's willowy form, 


Yon blue sea bears thy country's flag, 


Shrink before the gathering storm ! 


The billows' pride and joy ! 


I could ask a voice from thee, 




Delicate Anemone ! 


Those waves in many a fight have closed 




Above her faithful dead ; 




That red-cross flag victoriously 


Flower ! thou seem'st not born to die 


Hath floated o'er their bed. 


With thy radiant purity, 




But to melt in air away, 


They perish'd — this green turf to keep 


Mingling with the soft Spring-day, 


By hostile tread unstain'd, 


When the crystal heavens are still, 


These knightly halls inviolate, 


And faint azure veils each hill, 


Those churches unprofaned. 


And the lime-leaf doth not move, 




Save to songs that stir the grove, 


And high and clear their memory's light 


And earth all glorified is seen, 


Along our shore is set, 


As imaged in some lake serene ; 


And many an answering beacon-fire 


— Then thy vanishing should be, 


Shall there be kindled yet ! 


Pure and meek Anemone ! 


Lift up thy heart, my English boy ! 


Flower ! the laurel still may shed 


And pray, like them to stand, 


Brightness round the victor's head ; 


Should God so summon thee, to guard 


And the rose in beauty's hair 


The altars of the land. 


Still its festal glory wear ; 




And the willow-leaves drop o'er 




Brows which love sustains no more : 




But by living rays refined, 




Thou, the trembler of the wind, 


TO THE BLUE ANEMONE. 


Thou the spiritual flower, 




Sentient of each breeze and shower, 


Flower of starry clearness bright ! 


Thou, rejoicing in the skies, 


Quivering urn of colour' d light ! 


And transpierced with all their dyes ; 


Hast thou drawn thy cup's rich dye 


Breathing vase, with light o'erflowing, 


From the intenseness of the sky 1 


Gem-like to thy centre glowing, 


From a long, long fervent gaze 


Thou the poet's type shalt be, 


Through the year's first golden days, 


Flower of soul, Anemone ! 



SCENES AND PASSAGES FEOM GOETHE. 



611 



SCENES AND PASSAGES FROM 
GOETHE. 

SCENES FROM " TASSO." 

[One of the many literary projects contemplated by Mrs 
Hemans at this time, was a series of German studies, con- 
sisting of translations of scenes and passages from some of the 
most celebrated German authors, introduced and connected 
by illustrative remarks. The only one of these papers which 
she ever completed, was that on Goethe's " Tasso," published 
in the New Monthly Magazine for January 1834; a paper which 
well deserves attention, as it embodies so much of her indivi- 
dual feeling with respect to the high and sacred mission of the 
Poet ; as well as regarding that mysterious analogy between 
the outer world of nature and the inner world of the heart, 
which it was so peculiarly the tendency of her writings to 
develop. — Memoir, pp. 272-3.] 

The dramatic poem of " Tasso," though pre- 
senting no changeful pageants of many-coloured 
life — no combination of stirring incidents, nor 
conflict of tempestuous passions — is yet rich in 
interest for those who find — 

" The still, sad music of humanity, 

of ample power 

To chasten and subdue." 

It is a picture of the struggle between elements 
which never can assimilate — powers whose do- 
minion is over spheres essentially adverse ; be- 
tween the spirit of poetry and the spirit of the 
world. Why is it that this collision is almost in- 
variably fatal to the gentler and the holier nature 1 ? 
Some master-minds have, indeed, winged their 
way through the tumults of crowded life, like the 
sea-bird cleaving the storm from which its pinions 
come forth unstained ; but there needs a celestial 
panoply, with which few indeed are gifted, to bear 
the heirs of genius not only un wounded, but un- 
soiled, through the battle ; and too frequently the 
result of the poet's lingering afar from his better 
home has been mental degradation and untimely 
death. Let us not be understood as requiring for 
his wellbeing an absolute seclusion from the world 
and its interests. His nature, if the abiding-place 
of the true light be indeed within him, is endowed 
above all others with the tenderest and most 
widely-embracing sympathies. Not alone from 
"the things of the everlasting hills," from the 
storms or the silence of midnight skies, will he 
seek the grandeur and the beauty which have their 
central residence in a far more majestic temple. 
Mountains, and rivers, and mighty woods, the 
cathedrals of nature — these will have their part in 
his pictures ; but their colouring and shadows will 
not be wholly the gift of rising or departed suns, 



nor of the night with all her stars; it will be a vary- 
ing suffusion from the life within, from the glowing 
clouds of thought and feeling, which mantle with 
their changeful drapery all external creation. 

" We receive but what we give, 

And in our life alone does nature live.'" 

Let the poet bear into the recesses of woods and 
shadowy hills a heart full-fraught with the sym- 
pathies which will have been fostered by inter- 
course with his kind — a memory covered with the 
secret inscriptions which joy and sorrow fail not 
indelibly to write : then will the voice of every 
stream respond to him in tones of gladness or 
melancholy, accordant with those of his own soul; 
and he himself, by the might of feelings intensely 
human, may breathe the living spirit of the oracle 
into the resounding cavern or the whispering oak. 
We thus admit it essential to his high office, that 
the chambers of imagery in the heart of the poet 
must be filled with materials moulded from the 
sorrows, the affections, the fiery trials, and im- 
mortal longings of the human soul. Where love, 
and faith, and anguish, meet and contend — where 
the tones of prayer are wrung from the suffering 
spirit — there lie his veins of treasure ; there are 
the sweet waters ready to flow from the stricken 
rock. But he will not seek them through the 
gaudy and hurrying masque of artificial life ; he 
will not be the fettered Samson to make sport for 
the sons and daughters of fashion. Whilst he 
shuns no brotherly communion with his kind, he 
will ever reserve to his nature the power of self- 
communion — silent hours for 

" The harvest of the quiet eye 
That broods and sleeps on his own heart," 

and inviolate retreats in the depths of his being- 
fountains lone and still, upon which only the eye 
of Heaven shines down in its hallowed serenity. 
So have those who make us " heirs of truth and 
freedom by immortal lays," ever preserved the 
calm, intellectual ether in which they live and 
move from the taint of worldly infection ; and it 
appears the object of Goethe, in the work before 
us, to make the gifted spirit sadder and wiser by 
the contemplation of one, which, having sold its 
birthright, and stooped 1 from its " privacy of glo- 
rious light," is forced into perpetual contact with 
things essentially of the earth earthy. Dante has 
spoken of what the Italian poets must have learned 
but too feelingly under their protecting princes — 
the bitter taste of another's bread, the weary steps 
by which the stairs of another's house are ascended; 
but it is suffering of a more spiritual nature which 
is here portrayed. Would that the courtly patron- 



612 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



age, at the shrine of which the Italian muse has 
so often waved her censer, had imposed no severer 
tasks upon its votaries than the fashioning of the 
snow statue which it required from the genius of 
Michael Angelo ! The story of Tasso is fraught with 
yet deeper meaning, though it is not from the 
period of his most agonising trials that the ma- 
terials of Goethe's work are drawn. The poet is 
here introduced to us as a youth at the court of 
Ferrara ; visionary, enthusiastic, keenly alive to 
the splendour of the gorgeous world around him, 
throwing himself passionately upon the current 
of every newly-excited feeling ; a creature of sud- 
den lights and shadows, of restless strivings after 
ideal perfection, of exultations and of agonies. 
Why is it that the being thus exhibited as endowed 
with all these trembling capacities for joy and pain, 
with noble aspirations and fervid eloquence, fails 
to excite a more reverential interest, a more tender 
admiration] He is wanting in dignity, in the sus- 
taining consciousness of his own high mission; he 
has no city of refuge within himself, and thus — 
" Every little living nerve, 
That from bitter words doth swerve," 

has the power to shake his whole soul from its 
pride of place. He is thus borne down by the 
cold, triumphant worldliness of the courtier An- 
tonio, from the collision with whom, and the mis- 
taken endeavour of Tasso's friends to reconcile 
natures dissimilar as the sylph and gnome of fan- 
ciful creations, the conflicting elements of the 
piece are chiefly derived. There are impressive 
lessons to be drawn from the contemplation of 
these scenes, though, perhaps, it is not quite thus 
that we could have wished him delineated who 
" poured his spirit over Palestine ;" and it is occa- 
sionally almost too painful to behold the high- 
minded Tasso, recognised by his country as superior 
with the sword and the pen to all men, struggling in 
so ignoble an arena, and finally overpowered by so 
unworthy an antagonist. This world is indeed 
" too much with us," and but too powerful is often 
its withering breath upon the ethereal natures of 
love, devotion, and enthusiasm, which, in other 
regions, 

" May bear bright, golden flowers, but not in this soil." 

Yet who has not known victorious moments, in 
which the lightly-armed genii of ridicule have 
quailed ! — the conventional forms of life have 
shrunk as a shrivelled scroll before the Ithuriel 
touch of some generous feeling, some high and 
overshadowing passion suddenly aroused from the 
inmost recesses of the folded soul, and striking 
the electric chain which mysteriously connects all 



humanity'? "We could have wished that some such 
thrilling moment had been here introduced by the 
mighty master of Germany — something to relieve 
the too continuous impression of inherent weakness 
in the cause of the vanquished — something of a 
transmuting power in the soul of Tasso, to glorify 
the clouds which accumulate around it — to turn 
them into "contingencies of pomp" by the inter- 
penetration of its own celestial light. Yet we ap- 
proach with reverence the work of a noble hand; 
and, whilst entering upon our task of translation, 
we acknowledge, in humility, the feebleness of all 
endeavour to pour into the vase of another lan- 
guage the exquisitely subtle spirit of Goethe's 
poetry — to transplant and naturalise the delicate 
felicities of thought and expression by which this 
piece is so eminently distinguished. 

The visionary rapture which takes possession of 
Tasso upon being crowned with laurel by the 
Princess Leonora d'Este, the object of an affec- 
tion which the youthful poet has scarcely yet 
acknowledged to himself, is thus portrayed in 
one of the earlier scenes : — 

" Let me then bear the burden of my bliss 

To some deep grove that oft hath veil'd my grief ; 

There let me roam in solitude : no eye 

Shall then recall the triumph undeserved. 

And if some shining fountain suddenly 

On its clear mirror to my sight should give 

The form of one who, strangely, brightly crown'd, 

Seems musing in the blue reflected heaven, 

As it streams down through rocks and parted trees, 

Then will I dream that on the enchanted wave 

I see Elysium pictured ! I will ask 

Who is the bless'd departed one ? — the youth 

From long past ages with his glorious wreath ? 

Who shall reveal his name? — who speak his worth? 

Oh ! that another and another there 

Might press, with him to hold bright communing ! 

Might I but see the minstrels and the chiefs 

Of the old time on that pure fountain-side, 

For evermore inseparably link'd 

As they were link'd in life ! Not steel to steel 

Is bound more closely by the magnet's power 

Than the same striving after lofty things 

Doth bind the bard and warrior. Homer's life 

Was self-forgetfulness— he pour'd it forth, 

One rich libation to another's fame : 

And Alexander through th' Elysian grove 

To seek Achilles and his poet flies. 

Might I behold their meeting ! " 

But he is a reed shaken with the wind. Antonio 



SCENES AND PASSAGES FKOM GOETHE. 



613 



reaches the Court of Ferrara at this crisis, in all 
the importance of a successful negotiation with 
the Vatican. He strikes down the wing of the 
poet's delicate imagination with the arrows of a 
careless irony, and Tasso is for a time completely 
dazzled and overpowered by the worldly science 
of the skilful diplomatist. The deeper wisdom 
of his own simplicity is yet veiled from his eyes. 
Life seems to pass before him, as portrayed by* 
the discourse of Antonio, like a mighty triumphal 
procession, in the exulting movements and clarion- 
sounds of which he alone has no share ; and at 
last the forms of beauty, peopling his own spiritual 
world, seem to dissolve into clouds, even into 
faint shadows of clouds, before the strong glare 
of the external world, leaving his imagination as 
a desolate house, whence light and music have 
departed. He thus pours forth, when alone with 
the Princess Leonora, the impressions produced 
upon him by Antonio's descriptions : — 

They still disturb my heart — 
Still do they crowd my soul tumultuously — 
The troubling images of that vast world, 
Which — living, restless, fearful as it is — ■ 
Yet, at the bidding of one master-mind, 
E'en as commanded by a demigod, 
Seems to fulfil its course. With eagerness, 
Yea, with a strange delight, my soul drank in 
The strong words of the experienced ; but, alas ! 
The more I listen'd, still the more I sank 
In mine own eyes ; I seem'd to die away 
As into some faint echo of the rocks — 
A shadowy sound — a nothing ! 

There is something of a very touching beauty 
in the character of the Princess Leonora d'Este. 
She does not, indeed, resemble some of the lovely 
beings delineated by Shakspeare — the females, 
" graceful without design, and unforeseeing," in 
whom, even under the pressure of heaviest cala- 
mity, it is easy to discern the existence of the 
sunny and gladsome nature which would spring 
up with fawn-like buoyancy were but the crushing 
weight withdrawn. The spirit of Leonora has 
been at once elevated and subdued by early trial : 
high thoughts, like messengers from heaven, have 
been its visitants in the solitude of the sick- 
chamber ; and looking upon life and creation, as 
it were, through the softening veil of remembered 
suffering, it has settled into such majestic loveli- 
ness as the Italian painters delight to shadow 
forth on the calm brow of their Madonna. Its 
very tenderness is self-resignation ; its inner 



existence serene, yet sad — "a being breathing 
thoughtful breath." She is worshipped by the poet 
as his tutelary angel, and her secret affection for 
him might almost become that character. It has 
all the deep devotedness of a woman's heart, with 
the still purity of a seraphic guardian, taking no 
part in the passionate dreams of earthly happiness. 
She feels his genius with a reverential apprecia- 
tion ; she watches over it with a religious tender- 
ness, for ever interposing to screen its unfolding 
powers from every ruder breath. She rejoices 
in his presence as a flower filling its cup with 
gladness from the morning light ; yet, preferring 
his wellbeing to all earthly things, she would 
meekly offer up, for the knowledge of his distant 
happiness, even the fulness of that only and unut- 
terable j oy. A deep feeling of woman's lot on earth 
— the lot of endurance and of sacrifice — seems ever 
present to her soul, and speaks characteristically 
in these lines, with which she replies to a wish of 
Tasso's for the return of the golden age : — 

When earth has men to reverence female hearts, 
To know the treasure of rich truth and love, 
Set deep within a high-soul'd woman's breast ; 
When the remembrance of our summer prime 
Keeps brightly in man's heart a holy place ; 
When the keen glance that pierces through so much 
Looks also tenderly through that dim veil 
By time or sickness hung round drooping forms ; 
When the possession, stilling every wish, 
Draws not desire away to other wealth — 
A brighter dayspring then for us may dawn, 
Then may we solemnise our golden age. 

A character thus meditative, affectionate, and 
self-secluding, would naturally be peculiarly sen- 
sitive to the secret intimations of coming sorrow. 
Forebodings of evil arise in her mind from the 
antipathy so apparent between Tasso and Antonio ; 
and, after learning that the cold, keen irony of the 
latter has irritated the poet almost to frenzy, she 
thus, to her friend Leonora de Sanvitale, re- 
proaches herself for not having listened to the 
monitory whispers of her soul : — 

Alas ! that we so slowly learn to heed 
The secret signs and omens of the breast ! 
An oracle speaks low within our hearts — 
Low, still, yet clear, its prophet-voice forewarns 
What to pursue, what shun. 

Yes ! my whole soul misgave me silently 
When he and Tasso met. 



614 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



She admits to her friend the necessity for his 
departure from Ferrara ; but thus reverts, with 
fondly-clinging remembrance, to the time when 
he first became known to her : — 

Oh! mark'd and singled was the hour when first 
He met mine eye ! Sickness and grief just then 
Had pass'd away : from long, long suffering freed, 
I lifted up my brow, and silently 
Gazed upon life again. The sunny day, 
The sweet looks of my kindred, made a light 
Of gladness round me, and my freshen'd heart 
Drank the rich, healing balm of hope once more. 
Then onward, through the glowing world, I dared 
To send my glance, and many a kind, bright shape 
There beckon'd from afar. Then first the youth, 
Led by a sister's hand, before me stood, 
And my soul clung to him e'en then, friend ! 
To cling for evermore. 

Leo. Lament it not, 
My princess! — to have known heaven's gifted ones 
Is to have gather'd into the full soul 
Inalienable wealth ! 

Prin. Oh, precious things ! 
The richly graced, the exquisite, are things 
To fear, to love with trembling ! Beautiful 
Is the pure flame when on thy hearth it shines, 
When in the friendly torch it gives thee light, 
How gracious and how calm ! — but, once unchain'd, 
Lo ! ruin sweeps along its fatal path! 

She then announces her determination to make 
the sacrifice of his society, in which alone her 
being seems to find its full completion. 

Alas, dear friend ! my soul indeed is fix'd — 
Let him depart ! Yet cannot I but feel 
Even now the sadness of long days to come — 
The cold void left me by a lost delight ! 
No more shall sunrise from my opening eye 
Chase his bright image glorified in dreams ; 
Glad hope to see him shall no longer stir 
With joyous flutterings my scarce- waken' d soul; 
And vainly, vainly, through yon garden bowers, 
Amidst the dewy shadows, my first look 
Shall seek his form ! How blissful was the thought 
With him to share each golden evening's peace ! 
How grew the longing, hour by hour, to read 
His spirit yet more deeply ! Day by day 
How my own being, tuned to happiness, 
Gave forth a voice of finer harmony ! — 
Now is the twilight-gloom around me fallen : 
The festal day, the sun's magnificence, 
All riches of this many-colour'd world, 



What are they now 1 — dim, soulless, desolate ! 
Veil'd in the cloud that sinks upon my heart. 
Once was each day a life ! — each care was mute, 
Even the low boding hush'd within the soul ; 
And the smooth waters of a gliding stream, 
Without the rudder's aid, bore lightly on 
Our fairy bark of joy ! 

Her companion endeavours, but in vain, to 
console her. 

Leon. If the kind words of friendship cannot 
soothe, 
The still, sweet influences of this fair world 
Shall win thee back unconsciously to peace. 

Prin. Yes ! beautiful it is, the glowing world ! 
So many a joy keeps flitting to and fro 
In all its paths, and ever, ever seems 
One step, but one, removed ; till our fond thirst 
For the still fading fountain, step by step, 
Lures to the grave ! So seldom do we find 
What seem'd by Nature moulded for our love, 
And for our bliss endow'd — or, if we find, 
So seldom to our yearning hearts can hold ! 
That which once freely made itself our own 
Bursts from us ! — that which eagerly we press'd 
We coldly loose ! A treasure may be ours, 
Only we know it not, or know, perchance, 
Unconscious of its worth ! 

But the dark clouds are gathering within the 
spirit of Tasso itself, and the devotedness of affec- 
tion would in vain avert their lightnings by the 
sacrifice of all its own pure enjoyments. In the 
solitary confinement to which the Duke has 
sentenced him, as a punishment for his duel with 
Antonio, his jealous imagination, like that of the 
self-torturing Kousseau, pictures the whole world 
as arrayed in one conspiracy against him, and he 
doubts even of her truth and gentleness whose 
watching thoughts are all for his welfare. The 
following passages affectingly mark the progress 
of the dark despondency which finally over- 
whelms him, though the concluding lines of the 
last are brightened by a ray of those immortal 
hopes, the light of which we could have desired 
to recognise more frequently in this deeply 
thoughtful work. 

PRESENTIMENT OF HIS RUIN. 

Alas ! too well I feel, too true a voice 
Within me whispers, that the Mighty Power 
Which, on sustaining wings of strength and joy, 
Bears up the healthful spirit, will but cast 



SCENES AND PASSAGES FROM GOETHE. 



615 



Mine to the earth. — will rend me utterly ! 

I must away ! 

ON A FRIEND'S DECLARING HERSELF UNABLE TO 
RECOGNISE HIM. 

Rightly thou speak'st — I am myself no more ; 
And yet in worth not less than I have been. 
Seems this a dark, strange riddle? Yet, 'tis none ! 
The gentle moon that gladdens thee by night — 
Thine eye, thy spirit irresistibly 
Winning with beams of love — mark! how it floats 
Through the day's glare, a pale and powerless cloud ! 
I am o'ereome by the full blaze of noon ; 
Ye know me, and I know myself no more ! 

ON BEING ADVISED TO REFRAIN FROM COMPOSITION. 

Vainly, too vainly, 'gainst the power I strive, 
Which, night and day, comes rushing through my 

soul ! 
Without that pouring forth of thought and song 
My life is life no more ! 
Wilt thou forbid the silkworm to spin on, 
When hourly, with the labour'd line, he draws 
Nearer to death. In vain ! — the costly web 
Must from his inmost being still be wrought, 
Till he lies wrapp'd in his consummate shroud. 
Oh ! that a gracious God to us may give 
The lot of that bless'd worm! — to spread free wings, 
And burst exultingly on brighter life, 
In a new realm of sunshine ! 

He is at last released, and admitted into the 
presence of the Princess Leonora, to take his 
leave of her before commencing a distant journey. 
Notwithstanding his previous doubts of her 
interest in him, he is overcome by the pitying 
tenderness of her manner, and breaks into a 
strain of passionate gratitude and enthusiasm : — 

Thou art the same pure angel, as when first 
Thy radiance cross'd my path ! Forgive, forgive, 
If for a moment, in his blind despair, 
The mortal's troubled glance hath read thee wrong! 
Once more he knows thee ! His expanding soul 
Flows forth to worship thee for evermore, 
And his full heart dissolves in tenderness. 

Is it false light which draws me on to thee 1 
Is it delirium % — Is it thought inspired, 
And grasping first high truth divinely clear 1 
Yes ! 'tis even so — the feeling which alone 
Can make me bless'd on earth ! 



The wildness of his ecstasy at last terrifies his 
gentle protectress from him; he is forsaken by 
all as a being lost in hopeless delusion, and, being 
left alone to the insulting pity of Antonio, his 
strength of heart is utterly subdued : he passion- 
ately bewails his weakness, and even casts down 
his spirit almost in wondering admiration before 
the calm self-collectedness of his enemy, who 
himself seems at last almost melted by the 
extremity of the poet's desolation, as thus poured 
forth :— 

Can I then image no high-hearted man 
Whose pangs and conflicts have surpass'dmine own, 
That my vex'd soul might win sustaining power 
From thoughts of him? I cannot ! — all is lost ! 
One thing alone remains, one mournful boon : 
Nature on us, her suffering children, showers 
The gift of tears — the impassion'd cry of grief, 
When man can bear no more ; — and with my woe, 
With mine above all others, hath been link'd 
Sad music, piercing eloquence, to pour 
All, all its fulness forth ! To me a God 
Hath given strong utterance for mine agony, 
When others, in their deep despair, are mute ! 

Thou standest calm and still, thou noble man ! 
I seem before thee as the troubled wave : 
But oh ! be thoughtful ! — in thy lofty strength 
Exult thou not ! By nature's might alike 
That rock was fix'd, that quivering wave was made 
The sensitive of storm ! She sends her blasts — 
The living water flies — it quakes and swells, 
And bows down tremblingly with breaking foam; 
Yet once that mirror gave the bright sun back 
In calm transparence — once the gentle stars 
Lay still upon its undulating breast ! 
Now the sweet peace is gone — the glory now 
Departed from the wave ! I know myself 
No more in these dark perils, and no more 
I blush to lose that knowledge. From the bark 
Is wrench'd the rudder, and through all its frame 
The quivering vessel groans. Beneath my feet 
The rocking earth gives way — to thee I cling — 
I grasp thee with mine arms. In wild despair 
So doth the struggling sailor clasp the rock 
Whereon he perishes ! 

And thus painfully ends this celebrated drama, 
the catastrophe being that of the spiritual wreck 
within, unmingled with the terrors drawn from 
outward circumstances and change. The ma- 
jestic lines in which Byron has embodied the 
thoughts of the captive Tasso, will form a fine 



616 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



contrast and relief to the music of despair with 
which Goethe's work is closed : — 



" All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, 

But must be borne. I stoop not to despair ; 

For I have baffled with mine agony, 

And made me wings wherewith to overfly 

The narrow circus of my dungeon- wall ; 

And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall ; 

And revell'd among men and things divine, 

And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, 

In honour of the sacred war for Him, 

The God who was on earth and is in heaven ; 

For He hath strengthen'd me in heart and limb. 

That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, 

I have employ'd my penance to record 

How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored." 



SCENES FROM "IPHIGENIA." 

A FRAGMENT. 

There is a charm of antique grace, of the ma- 
jestic repose resulting from a faultless symmetry, 
about the whole of this composition, which in- 
clines us to rank it as among the most consum- 
mate works of art ever achieved by the master- 
mind of its author. The perfection of its design 
and finish is analogous to that of a Grecian 
temple, seen as the crown of some old classic 
height, with all its pure outlines — all the delicate 
proportions of its airy pillars — brought into bold 
relief by the golden sunshine, and against the 
unclouded blue of its native heavens. Complete 
within itself, the harmonious edifice is thus also 
to the mind and eye of the beholder ; they are 
filled, and desire no more — they even feel that 
more would be but encumbrance upon the fine 
adjustment of the well-ordered parts constituting 
the graceful whole. It sends no vague dreams to 
wander through infinity, such as are excited by 
a Gothic minster, where the slight pinnacles 
striving upward, like the free but still baffled 
thought of the architect — the clustering pillars 
and high arches imitating the bold combinations 
of mysterious forests — the many-branching cells, 
and long visionary aisles, of which waving torch- 
light or uncertain glimpses of the moon seem the 
fittest illumination — ever suggest ideas of some 
conception in the originally moulding mind, far 
more vast than the means allotted to human 
accomplishment — of struggling endeavour, and 
painfully submitted will. Akin to the spirit of 



such creations is that of the awful but irregular 
Faust, and other works of Goethe, in which the 
restless questionings, the lofty aspirations, and 
dark misgivings of the human soul, are perpetu- 
ally called up to " come like shadows, so depart," 
across the stormy splendours of the scene ; and 
the mind is engaged in ceaseless conflict with 
the interminable mysteries of life. It is other- 
wise with the work before us : overshadowed, as 
it were, by the dark wings of the inflexible Des- 
tiny which hovers above the children of Tantalus, 
the spirit of the imaginary personages, as well as 
of the reader, here moves acquiescently within 
the prescribed circle of events, and is seldom 
tempted beyond, to plunge into the abyss of 
general speculations upon the lot of humanity. 



JOY OF PYLADES ON HEARING HIS NATIVE 
LANGUAGE. 

sweetest voice ! bless'd familiar sound • 
Of mother-words heard in the stranger's land ! 

1 see the blue hills of my native shore, 

The far blue hills again ! those cordial tones, 
Before the captive bid them freshly rise 
For ever welcome ! Oh, by this deep joy, 
Know the true son of Greece ! 



EXCLAMATIONS OF IPHIGENIA ON SEEING HER 
BROTHER. 

Oh, hear me ! look upon me ! How my heart, 
After long desolation, now unfolds 
Unto this new delight, to kiss thy head, 
Thou dearest, dearest one of all on earth ! 
To clasp thee with my arms, which were but thrown 
On the void winds before ! Oh, give me way ! 
Give my soul's rapture way ! The eternal fount 
Leaps not more brightly forth from cliff to clifl 7 
Of high Parnassus, down the golden vale, 
Than the strong joy bursts gushing from my heart, 
And swells around me to a flood of bliss — 
Orestes ! — my brother ! 

in. 

LOT OF MAN AND WOMAN COMPARED BY IPHIGENIA. 

Man by the battle's hour immortalised 
May fall, yet leave his name to living song . 
But of forsaken woman's countless tears, 
What recks the after- world 1 The poet's voice 
Tells naught of all the slow, sad, weary days, 



RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834. 



617 



And long, long nights, through which the lonely 
Pour d itself forth, consumed itself away, [soul 
In passionate adjurings, vain desires, 
And ceaseless weepings for the early lost, 
The loved and vanish'd ! 



LONGING OP ORESTES FOR REPOSE. 

One draught from Lethe's flood ! — reach me one 

draught, 
One last cool goblet fill'd with dewy peace ! 
Soon will the spasm of life departing leave 
My bosom free ! Soon shall my spirit flow 
Along the deep waves of forgetfulness, 
Calmly and silently ! away to you, 
Ye dead ! Ye dwellers of the eternal cloud ! 
Take home the son of earth, and let him steep 
His o'erworn senses in your dim repose 
For evermore. 



CONTINUATION OP ORESTES' SOLILOQUY. 

Hark ! in the trembling leaves 
Mysterious whispers : hark ! a rushing sound 
Sweeps through yon twilight depth ! — e'en now 

they come, 
They throng to greet their guest! And who are they 
Rejoicing each with each in stately joy, 
As a king's children gather'd for the hour 
Of some high festival ! Exultingly, 
And kindred-like, and godlike, on they pass — 
The glorious, wandering shapes ! aged and young, 
Proud men and royal women ! Lo ! my race — 
My sire's ancestral race ! 



RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834. 

[These sonnets, written in the months of April, May, and 
June, were intended, together with the Records of the 
Autumn of 1834, to form a continuation of the series entitled 
" Sonnets, Devotional and Memorial."] 

A VERNAL THOUGHT. 

festal Spring ! midst thy victorious glow, 
Far-spreading o'er the kindled woods and plains, 
And streams, that bound to meet thee from their 

chains, 
Well might there lurk the shadow of a woe 



For human hearts, and in the exulting flow 
Of thy rich songs a melancholy tone, 
Were we of mould all earthly — we alone, 
Sever'd from thy great spell, and doom'd to go 
Farther, still farther, from our sunny time, 
Never to feel the breathings of our prime, 
Never to flower again ! But we, Spring ! 
Cheer'd by deep spirit-whispers not of earth, 
Press to the regions of thy heavenly birth, [sing. 
As here thy flowers and birds press on to bloom and 



TO THE SKY. 

Far from the rustlings of the poplar-bough, 
Which o'er my opening life wild music made, 
Far from the green hills with their heathery glow 
And flashing streams whereby my childhood play'd ; 
In the dim city, midst the sounding flow 
Of restless life, to thee in love I turn 
thou rich Sky ! and from thy splendours learn 
How song-birds come and part, flowers wane and 

blow. 
With thee all shapes of glory find their home, 
And thou hast taught me well, majestic dome ! 
By stars, by sunsets, by soft clouds which rove 
Thy blue expanse, or sleep in silvery rest, 
That Nature's God hath left no spot unbless'd 
With founts of beauty for the eye of love. 



ON RECORDS OF IMMATURE GENIUS. 1 

Oh ! judge in thoughtful tenderness of those 
Who, richly dower'd for life, are call'd to die 
Ere the soul's flame, through storms, hath won 
In truth's divinest ether, still and high ! [repose 
Let their mind's riches claim a trustful sigh ! 
Deem them but sad, sweet fragments of a strain, 
First notes of some yet struggling harmony, 
By the strong rush, the crowding joy and pain 
Of many inspirations met, and held [swell'd 

From its true sphere, — oh ! soon it might have 
Majestically forth ! Nor doubt that He, 
Whose touch mysterious may on earth dissolve 
Those links of music, elsewhere will evolve 
Their grand consummate hymn, from passion-gusts 
made free ! 



1 "Written after reading some of the earlier poems of the 
late Mrs Tighe, which had been lent her in manuscript. 



618 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



ON WATCHING THE FLIGHT OF A 
SKY-LARK. 

Upward and upward still ! — in pearly light 
The clouds are steep'd ! the vernal spirit sighs 
With bliss in every wind, and crystal skies 
Woo thee, bird ! to thy celestial height. 
Bird, piercing heaven with music ! thy free flight 
Hath meaning for all bosoms ; most of all 
For those wherein the rapture and the might 
Of poesy lie deep, and strive, and burn, 
For their high place. heirs of genius ! learn 
From the sky's bird your way ! No joy may fill 
Your hearts, no gift of holy strength be won 
To bless your songs, ye children of the sun ! [still ! 
Save by the unswerving flight, upward and upward 



A THOUGHT OF THE SEA. 

My earliest memories to thy shores are bound, 
Thy solemn shores, thou ever-chanting main ! 
The first rich sunsets, kindling thought profound 
In my lone being, made thy restless plain 
As the vast, shining floor of some dread fane, 
All paved with glass and fire. Yet, blue deep ! 
Thou that no trace of human hearts dost keep, 
Never to thee did love with silvery chain 
Draw my soul's dream, which through all nature 

sought 
What waves deny, — some bower of steadfast bliss, 
A home to twine with fancy, feeling, thought, 
As with sweet flowers. But chasten'd hope for this 



[} The sight and sound of the sea were always connected in 
her mind with melancholy associations ; with 

" Doubt, and something dark, 
Of the old sea some reverential fear ; " 

with images of storm and desolation, of shipwreck and sea- 
burial : the last, indeed, was so often present to her imagina- 
tion, and has so frequently been introduced into her poetry, 
that any one inclined to superstitious presentiments might 
almost have been disposed to fancy it a foreshadowing of 
some such dark fate in store either for herself or for some one 
dear to her. These associations, like those awakened by the 
wind, were perfectly distinct from anything of personal timi- 
dity, and were the more indefinable, as she had never suffered 
any calamity at all connected with the sea : none of those she 
loved had been consigned to its reckless waters, nor had she 
ever seen it in all its terrors, for the coast on which her early 
years were passed is by no means a rugged or dangerous one, 
and is seldom visited by disaster. 

" Are all these notes in thee, wild wind ! these many notes in thee ? 
Far in our own unfathom'd souls their fount must surely be ; 
Yes ! buried, but unsleeping there, thought watches, memory lies, 
From whose deep urn the tones are poured through all earth's 
harmonies." 



Now turns from earth's green valleys, as from thee, 
To that sole changeless world, where "there is no 



DISTANT SOUND OF THE SEA AT 
EVENING. 

Yet, rolling far up some green mountain-dale, 
Oft let me hear, as ofttimes I have heard, 
Thy swell, thou deep ! when evening calls the bird 
And bee to rest ; when summer-tints grow pale, 
Seen through the gathering of a dewy veil ; 
And peasant-steps are hastening to repose, 
And gleaming flocks lie down, and flower- cups close 
To the last whisper of the falling gale. 
Then midst the dying of all other sound, 
When the soul hears thy distant voice profound, 
Lone worshipping, and knows that through the 

night 
'Twill worship still, then most its anthem-tone 
Speaks to our being of the Eternal One, 
Who girds tired nature with unslumbering might. 



THE RIVER CLWYD IN NORTH WALES. 

Cambrian river ! with slow music gliding 
By pastoral hills, old woods, and ruin'd towers ; 
Now midst thy reeds and golden willows hiding, 
Now gleaming forth by some rich bank of flowers ; 



In one of her later sonnets on this subject, a chord is struck 
which may perhaps find an echo in other bosoms : — 
" Yet, O blue deep !" etc. 

The same feeling is expressed in one of her letters : — " Did 
you ever observe how strangely sounds and images of waters 
— rushing torrents, and troubled ocean-waves, are mingled 
with the visionary distresses of dreams and delirium ? To me 
there is no more perfect emblem of peace than that expressed 
by the Scriptural phrase, ' There shall be no more sea.' " 

How forcible is the contrast between the essential woman- 
liness of these associations, so full of " the still, sad music of 
humanity," and the " stern delight " with which Lord Byron, 
in his magnificent apostrophe to the Sea, exults in its ministry 
of wrath, and recounts, as with a fierce joy, its dealings with 
its victim, man ! 

" The vile strength he wields 

For earth's destruction, thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray, 
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
And dashest him again to earth— there let him lay." 
Childb Harold, j 



RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834. 



619 



Long iiow'd the current of my life's clear hours 
Onward with thine, whose voice yet haunts my 

dream, 
Tho' time and change, and other mightier powers, 
Far from thy side have borne me. Thou, smooth 

stream ! 
Art winding still thy sunny meads along, 
Murmuring to cottage and gray hall thy song, 
Low, sweet, unchanged, il/yheing'stide hathpass'd 
Through rocks and storms; yet will I not complain, 
If, thus wrought free and pure from earthly stain, 
Brightly its waves may reach their parent-deep 

at last. 



ORCHARD-BLOSSOMS. 

Doth thy heart stir within thee at the sight 
Of orchard-blooms upon the mossy bough] [glow 
Doth their sweet household-smile waft back the 
Of childhood's morn — the wondering, fresh delight 
In earth's new colouring, then all strangely bright, 
A joy of fairyland? Doth some old nook, 
Haunted by visions of thy first-loved book, 
Rise on thy soul, with faint-streak'd blossoms white 
Shower'd o'er the turf, and the lone primrose-knot, 
And robin's nest, still faithful to the spot, 
And the bee's dreary chime ] gentle friend ! 
The world's cold breath, not Time's, this life be- 
reaves 
Of vernal gifts : time hallows what he leaves, 
And will for us endear spring-memories to the end. 

8th May. 



TO A DISTANT SCENE. 

Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing, 
far-off, grassy dell 1 — and dost thou see, 
When southern winds first wake their vernal sing- 
The star-gleam of the wood anemone ] [ing, 

Doth the shy ringdove haunt thee yet] the bee 
Hang on thy flowers as when I breathed farewell 
To their wild blooms ] and, round my beechen tree, 
Still, in green softness, doth the moss-bank swell? 
Oh, strange illusion ! by the fond heart wrought, 
Whose own warm life suffuses nature's face ! 



C 1 It would have been very dear to her, could she have fore- 
seen the delicate and appropriate commemoration awarded to 
her by Mr Wordsworth, in the elegiac stanzas which record 
the high names of some of his most distinguished contem- 
poraries, (Scott, Coleridge, Lamb, Crabbe, and Hogg,) 



My being's tide of many-colour'd thought 
Hath pass'd from thee; and now, rich, leafy place! 
I paint thee oft, scarce consciously, a scene, 
Silent, forsaken, dim;, shadow'd by what hath been. 



A REMEMBRANCE OF GRASMERE. 1 

vale and lake, within your mountain-urn 
Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep ! 
Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return, 
Colouring the tender shadows of my sleep 
With light Elysian ; for the hues that steep 
Your shores in melting lustre, seem to float 
On golden clouds from spirit-lands remote, 
Isles of the blest ; and in our memory keep 
Their place with holiest harmonies. Fair scene, 
Most loved by evening and her dewy star ! 
Oh ! ne'er may man, with touch unhallow'd, jar 
The perfect music of thy charm serene ! 
Still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear 
Smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, 
and prayer. 



THOUGHTS CONNECTED WITH TREES. 

Trees, gracious trees ! — how rich a gift ye are, 
Crown of the earth ! to human hearts and eyes ! 
How doth the thought of home, in lands afar, 
Link'd with your forms and kindly whisperings rise ! 
How the whole picture of a childhood lies 
Oft midst your boughs forgotten, buried deep ! 
Till, gazing through them up the summer skies, 
As hush'd we stand, a breeze perchance may creep, 
And old, sweet leaf-sounds reach the inner world 
Where memory coils — and lo ! at once unfurl'd, 
The past, a glowing scroll, before our sight 
Spreads clear; while, gushing from their long- 
seal'd urn, [return, 

Young thoughts, pure dreams, undoubting prayers 
And a lost mother's eye gives back its holy light. 



THE SAME. 

And ye are strong to shelter ! — all meek things, 
All that need home and covert, love your shade ! 



summoned in quick succession " to the land whence none 

return :" — 

" Mourn rather for that holy spirit, 
Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep, 
For her who, ere her summer faded, 
Has sunk iDto a breathless sleep."] 



620 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Birds of shy song, and low-voiced quiet springs, 
And nun-like violets, by the winds betray 'd. 
Childhood beneath your fresh green tents hath 

play'd [sought 

With his first primrose-wreath : there love hath 
A veiling gloom for his unutter'd thought ; 
And silent grief, of day's keen glare afraid, 
A refuge for her tears ; and ofttimes there 
Hath lone devotion found a place of prayer, 
A native temple, solemn, hush'd, and dim ; 
For wheresoe'er your murmuring tremours thrill 
The woody twilight, there man's heart hath still 
Confess'd a spirit's breath, and heard a ceaseless 

hymn. 



ON READING PAUL AND VIRGINIA IN 
CHILDHOOD. 

gentle story of the Indian isle ! 

1 loved thee in my lonely childhood well 

On the sea-shore, when day's last, purple smile 
Slept on the waters, and their hollow swell 
And dying cadence lent a deeper spell 
Unto thine ocean-pictures. Midst thy palms 
And strange bright birds, my fancy joy'd to dwell, 
And watch the southern cross through midnight 

calms, 
And track the spicy woods. Yet more I bless'd 
Thy vision of sweet love — kind, trustful, true, 
Lighting the citron groves, a heavenly guest, 
With such pure smiles as Paradise once knew. 
Even then my young heart wept o'er this world's 

power 
To reach with blight that holiest Eden-flower. 



A THOUGHT AT SUNSET. 

Still that last look is solemn ! though thy rays, 
sun ! to-morrow will give back, we know, 
The joy to nature's heart. Yet through the glow 
Of clouds that mantle thy decline, our gaze 
Tracks thee with love half-fearful : and in days 
When earth too much adored thee, what a swell 
Of mournful passion, deepening mighty lays, 
Told how the dying bade thy light farewell, 
sun of Greece ! glorious, festal sun ! 
Lost, lost ! — for them thy golden hours were done, 

1 The sonnet " To an aged Friend," first published in Mrs 
Hemans's Poetical Remains, was addressed to Dr Perceval 
of Dublin. The sonnet " To the Datura Arborea," in the 
same volume, was written after seeing a superb specimen of 



And darkness lay before them ! Happier far 
Are we, not thus to thy bright wheels enchain'd, 
Not thus for thy last parting unsustain'd — 
Heirs of a purer day, with its unsetting star. 



IMAGES OF PATRIARCHAL LIFE. 

Calm scenes of patriarch life ! how long a power 
Your unworn pastoral images retain 
O'er the true heart, which in its childhood's hour 
Drank their pure freshness deep ! The camels' train 
Winding in patience o'er the desert plain — 
The tent, the palm-tree, the reposing flock, 
The gleaming fount, the shadow of the rock — 
Oh ! by how subtle, yet how strong a chain, 
And in the influence of its touch how bless'd, 
Are these things link'd, in many a thoughtful breast, 
To household-memories, thro' all change endear'd! 
— The matin bird, the ripple of a stream 
Beside our native porch, the hearth-light's gleam, 
The voices, earliest by the soul revered ! 



ATTRACTION OF THE EAST. 

What secret current of man's nature turns 
Unto the golden East with ceaseless flow 1 
Still, where the sunbeam at its fountain burns, 
The pilgrim -spirit would adore and glow ; 
Rapt in high thoughts, though weary, faint, and 

slow, 
Still doth the traveller through the deserts wind, 
Led by those old Chaldean stars, which know 
Where pass'd the shepherd-fathers of mankind. 
Is it some quenchless instinct, which from far 
Still points to where our alienated home 
Lay in bright peace ? thou true Eastern star ! 
Saviour ! atoning Lord ! where'er we roam, 
Draw still our hearts to thee, else, else how vain 
Their hope, the fair lost birthright to regain ! 



TO AN AGED FRIEND. 1 

Not long thy voice amongst us may be heard, 
Servant of God ! — thy day is almost done ; 

that striking plant in Dr Perceval's beautiful greenhouse at 
Annefield. 

Dr Perceval died 3d March 1839, equally respected for his 
talents and virtues. 



RECORDS OF THE SPRING OF 1834. 



621 



The charm now lingering in thy look and word 
Is that which hangs about thy setting sun — 
That which the meekness of decay hath won 
Still from revering love. Yet doth the sense 
Of life immortal — progress but begun — 
Pervade thy mien with such clear eloquence, 
That hope, not sadness, breathes from thy decline; 
And the loved flowers which round thee smile 

farewell 
Of more than vernal glory seem to tell, 
By thy pure spirit touch'd with light divine ; 
While we, to whom its parting gleams are given, 
Forget the grave in trustful thoughts of heaven. 



A HAPPY HOUR. 

[" The • Thoughts ' were published in the New Monthly 
Magazine for March 1835. They are intensely individual. 
One of them, on Retzsch's design of the Angel of Death, 
was suggested by an impressive description in Mrs Jameson's 
' Visits and Sketches.' In another, she speculates earnestly 
and reverently upon the direction of the flight of the spirit 
when the soul and body shall part; in others again, she 
recurs tenderly to the haunts and pleasures of childhood, 
which had of late been present to her memory with more than 
usual force and freshness. To these the following sonnet 
refers, dated 21st May 1834, which, as far as I am aware, has 
not hitherto been published." — Chorley's Memorials of Mrs 
Hemans, p. 339-40.] 

Oh ! what a joy to feel that, in my breast, 
The founts of childhood's vernal fancies lay 
Still pure, though heavily and long repress'd 
By early-blighted leaves, which o'er their way 
Dark summer-storms had heaped. But free, glad 

play 
Once more was given them : to the sunshine's 

glow, 
And the sweet wood-song's penetrating flow, 
And to the wandering primrose-breath of May, 
And the rich hawthorn-odours, forth they sprung. 
Oh ! not less freshly bright, that now a thought 
Of spiritual presence o'er them hung, 
And of immortal life ! a germ, un wrought 
In childhood's soul to power — now strong, serene, 
And full of love and light, colouring the whole blest 



FOLIAGE. 

Come forth, and let us through our hearts receive 
The joy of verdure ! See ! the honey'd lime 



Showers cool green light o'er banks where wild- 
flowers weave 
Thick tapestry, and woodbine-tendrils climb 
Up the brown oak from buds of moss and thyme. 
The rich deep masses of the sycamore 
Hang heavy with the fulness of their prime ; 
And the white poplar, from its foliage hoar, [gale 
Scatters forth gleams like moonlight, with each 
That sweeps the boughs : the chestnut-flowers are 

past, 
The crowning glories of the hawthorn fail, 
But arches of sweet eglantine are cast 
From every hedge. Oh ! never may we lose, 
Dear friend ! our fresh delight in simplest nature's 
hues ! 

2d June. 



A PRAYER. 

Father in heaven ! from whom the simplest flower, 
On the high Alps or fiery desert thrown, 
Draws not sweet odour or young life alone, 
But the deep virtue of an inborn power, 
To cheer the wanderer in his fainting hour 
With thoughts of Thee — to strengthen, to infuse 
Faith, love, and courage, by the tender hues 
That speak thy presence ! oh, with such a dower 
Grace thou my song ! — the precious gift bestow 
From thy pure Spirit's treasury divine, 
To wake one tear of purifying flow, 
To soften one wrung heart for thee and thine ; 
So shall the life breathed through the lowly strain 
Be as the meek wild-flower's — if transient, yet not 
vain. 



PRAYER CONTINUED. 

" What in me is dark, 
Illumine ; what is low, raise and support." — Mii/ton. 

Far are the wings of intellect astray 
That strive not, Father ! to thy heavenly seat ; 
They rove, but mount not, and the tempests beat 
Still on their plumes. Source of mental day ! 
Chase from before my spirit's track the array 
Of mists and shadows, raised by earthly care, 
In troubled hosts that cross the purer air, 
And veil the opening of the starry way, 
Which brightens on to thee ! Oh, guide thou right 
My thought's weak pinion ; clear my inward sight, 
The eternal springs of beauty to discern, 
Welling beside thy throne ; unseal mine ear, 



622 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Nature's true oracles in joy to hear ; 

Keep my soul wakeful still to listen and to learn. 



MEMORIAL OF A CONVERSATION. 

Yes ! all things tell us of a birthright lost — • 
A brightness from our nature pass'd away ! 
Wanderers we seem that from an alien coast 
Would turn to where their Father's mansion lay ; 
And but by some lone flower, that midst decay 
Smiles mournfully, or by some sculptured stone, 
Revealing dimly, with gray moss o'ergrown, 
The faint, worn impress of its glory's day, 
Can trace their once-free heritage, though dreams, 
Fraught with its picture, oft in startling gleams 
Flash o'er their souls. But One, oh ! One alone, 
For us the ruin'd fabric may rebuild, 
And bid the wilderness again be fill'd 
With Eden-fiowers — One mighty to atone ! 

27th June. 1 



RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN OF 1834. 

THE RETURN TO POETRY. 

Once more the eternal melodies from far 
Woo me like songs of home : once more discerning, 
Through fitful clouds, the pure majestic star 
Above the poet's world serenely burning, 
Thither my soul, fresh-wing'd by love, is turning, 
As o'er the waves the wood-bird seeks her nest, 

[} For this corrected chronology of these sonnets, we are 
indebted to the Rev. R. P. Graves, Bowness ; as also for some 
improved readings, and the MS. of " A Happy Hour."] 

2 In reference to these two sonnets, Mrs Hemans thus 
remarks in a letter to a friend ;— " I wrote them only a few 
days ago (almost the first awakening of my spirit, indeed, 
after a long silence and darkness,) upon reading that delight- 
ful book of Pellico's, 3 which I borrowed in consequence of 
what you had told me of it. I know not when I have read 
any thing which has so deeply impressed me: the gradual 
brightening of heart and soul into 'the perfect day' of 
Christian excellence through all those fiery trials, presents, I 
think, one of the most touching, as well as instructing pictures 
ever contemplated. How beautiful is the scene between him 
and Oroboni, in which they mutually engage to shrink not 
from the avowal of their faith, should they ever return into 
the world ! But I could say so much on this subject, which 
has quite taken hold of my thoughts, that it would lead me to 
fill up my whole letter." 

3 " Le mie Prigioni." 



For those green heights of dewy stillness yearning, 
Whence glorious minds o'erlook this earth's unrest. 
Now be the Spirit of heaven's truth my guide 
Through the bright land ! — that no brief gladness, 

found 
In passing bloom, rich odour, or sweet sound, 
May lure my footsteps from their aim aside : 
Their true, high quest — to seek, if ne'er to gain, 
The inmost, purest shrine of that august domain. 

9th September. 



TO SILVIO PELLICO, ON READING HIS 
"PRIGIONE." 

There are who climb the mountain's heathery side, 

Or, in life's vernal strength triumphant, urge 

The bark's fleet rushing through the crested surge, 

Or spur the courser's fiery race of pride 

Over the green savannahs, gleaming wide 

By some vast lake ; yet thus, on foaming sea, 

Or chainless wild, reign far less nobly free 

Than thou, in that lone dungeon, glorified 

By thy brave suffering. Thou from its dark cell 

Fierce thought and baleful passion didst exclude, 

Filling the dedicated solitude 

With God ; and where His Spirit deigns to dwell, 

Though the worn frame in fetters withering lie, 

There throned in peace divine is liberty ! 



TO THE SAME, RELEASED. 2 

How flows thy being now 1 — like some glad hymn 
One strain of solemn rapture 1 — doth thine eye 

In another letter she spoke further of this book, as a 
" work with which I have been both impressed and delighted, 
and one which I strongly recommend you to procure. It is 
the Prigioni of Silvio Pellico, a distinguished young Italian 
poet, who incurred the suspicions of the Austrian govern- 
ment, and was condemned to the penalty of the carcere duro 
during ten years, of which this most interesting work contains 
the narrative. It is deeply affecting, from the heart-springing 
eloquence with which he details his varied sufferings. What 
forms, however, the great charm of the work, is the gradual 
and almost unconsciously-revealed exaltation of the sufferer's 
character, spiritualised through suffering, into the purest 
Christian excellence. It is beautiful to see the lessons of trust 
in God, and love to mankind, brought out more and more into 
shining light from the depth of the dungeon-gloom ; and all 
this crowned at last by the release of the noble, all-forgiving 
captive, and his restoration to his aged father and mother, 
whose venerable faces seem perpetually to have haunted the 
solitude of his cell. The book is written in the most classic 
Italian, and will, I am sure, be one to afford you lasting 
delight." 



RECORDS OF THE AUTUMN" OF 1834. 



623 



Wander through tears of voiceless feeling dim 
O'er the crown'd Alps, that, midst the upper sky, 
Sleep in the sunlight of thine Italy 1 
Or is thy gaze of reverent love profound 
Unto these dear, parental faces bound, 
Which, with their silvery hair, so oft glanced by, 
Haunting thy prison-dreams 1 Where'er thou art, 
Blessings be shed upon thine inmost heart ! 
Joy, from kind looks, blue skies, and flowery sod, 
For that pure voice of thoughtful wisdom sent 
Forth from thy cell, in sweetness eloquent 
Of love to man, and quenchless trust in God ! 



ON A SCENE IN THE DARGLE. 1 

'Twas a bright moment of my life when first, 
thou pure stream through rocky portals flowing! 
That temple-chamber of thy glory burst 
On my glad sight! Thy pebbly couch lay glowing 
With deep mosaic hues ; and, richly throwing 
O'er thy cliff-walls a tinge of autumn's vest, 
High bloom'd the heath-flowers, and the wild wood's 

crest 
Was touch'd with gold. Flow ever thus, bestowing 
Gifts of delight, sweet stream ! on all who move 
Gently along thy shores ; and oh ! if love — 
True love, in secret nursed, with sorrow fraught — 
Should sometimes bear his treasured griefs to thee, 
Then full of kindness let thy music be, 
Singing repose to every troubled thought ! 



ON THE DATURA ARBOREA. 

Majestic plant ! such fairy dreams as lie, 
Nursed, where the bee sucks in the cowslip's bell, 
Are not thy train. Those flowers of vase-like swell, 
Clear, large, with dewy moonlight fill'd from high, 
And in their monumental purity 
Serenely drooping, round thee seem to draw 
Visions link'd strangely with that silent awe 
Which broods o'er sculpture's works. A meet ally 
For those heroic forms, the simply grand 
Art thou : and worthy, carved by plastic hand, 
Above some kingly poet's- tomb to shine 
In spotless marble ; honouring one whose strain 
Soar'd, upon wings of thought that knew no stain, 
Free through the starry heavens of truth divine. 

1 A beautiful valley in the county of Wicklow. 



ON READING COLERIDGE'S EPITAPH, 

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF. 

" Stop, Christian passer-by ! stop, child of God ! 
And read with gentle breast :— Beneath this sod 
A Poet lies, or that which once seem'd he : 
Oh ! lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C. ! 
That he, who once in vain, with toil of breath, 
Found death in life, may here find life in death ■ 
Mercy, for praise — to be forgiven, for fame — 
He ask'd and hoped through Christ. Do thou the same." 

Spirit ! so oft in radiant freedom soaring 
High through seraphic mysteries unconfined, 
And oft, a diver through the deep of mind, 
Its caverns, far below its waves, exploring ; 
And oft such strains of breezy music pouring, 
As, with the floating sweetness of their sighs, 
Could still all fevers of the heart, restoring 
Awhile that freshness left in Paradise ; 
Say, of those glorious wanderings what the goal ] 
What the rich fruitage to man's kindred soul 
From wealth of thine bequeathed 1 strong and 

high, 
And sceptred intellect ! thy goal confess'd 
Was the Redeemer's Cross — thy last bequest 
One lesson breathing thence profound humility ! 



DESIGN AND PERFORMANCE. 

They float before my soul, the fair designs 
Which I would body forth to life and power, 
Like clouds, that with their wavering hues and lines 
Portray majestic buildings : — dome and tower, 
Bright spire, that through the rainbow and the 

shower 
Points to th' unchanging stars ; and high arcade, 
Far-sweeping to some glorious altar, made 
For holiest rites. Meanwhile the waning hour 
Melts from me, and by fervent dreams o'erwrought, 
I sink. friend ! link'd with each high thought ! 
Aid me, of those rich visions to detain 
All I may grasp ; until thou see'st fulfill' d, 
While time and strength allow, my hope to build 
For lowly hearts devout, but one enduring fane ! 

18th October. 



HOPE OF FUTURE COMMUNION WITH 
NATURE. 

If e'er again my spirit be allow'd 

Converse with Nature in her chambers deep, 



624 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



Where lone, and mantled with the rolling cloud, 
She broods o'er new-born waters, as they leap 
In sword-like flashes down the heathery steep 
From caves of mystery ; — if I roam once more 
Where dark pines quiver to the torrent's roar, 
And voiceful oaks respond; — may I not reap 
A more ennobling joy, a loftier power, 
Than e'er was shed on life's more vernal hour 
From such communion ? Yes! I then shall know 
That not in vain have sorrow, love, and thought 
Their long, still work of preparation wrought, 
For that more perfect sense of God reveal'd below. 



DREAMS OF THE DEAD. 

Oft in still night-dreams a departed face 
Bends o'er me with sweet earnestness of eye, 
Wearing no more of earthly pains a trace, 
But all the tender pity that may lie 
On the clear brow of Immortality, 
Calm, yet profound. Soft rays illume that mien ; 
Th' unshadow'd moonlight of some far-off sky 
Around it floats transparently serene 
As a pure veil of waters. rich Sleep ! 
The spells are mighty in thy regions deep, 
To glorify with reconciling breath, 
Effacing, brightening, giving forth to shine 
Beauty's high truth ; and how much more divine 
Thy power when link'd, in this, with thy strong 
brother — Death ! 



THE POETRY OF THE PSALMS. 

Nobly thy song, minstrel ! rush'd to meet 
Th' Eternal on the pathway of the blast, 
With darkness round him as a mantle cast, 
And cherubim to waft his flying seat. 
Amidst the hills that smoked beneath his feet, 
With trumpet-voice thy spirit call'd aloud, 
And bade the trembling rocks his name repeat, 
And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud. 
But far more gloriously to earth made known 
By that high strain, than by the thunder's tone, 
The flashing torrents, or the ocean's roll, 
Jehovah spake, through thee imbreathing fire, 
Nature's vast realms for ever to inspire 
With the deep worship of a living soul. 



DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION. 

" Par correr miglior acqua alza le vele, 

Oraai la navicella del mio Intelletto." — Dantr. 

My soul was mantled with dark shadows, born 

Of lonely Fear, disquieted in vain ; 
Its phantoms hung around the star of morn, 

A cloud-like, weeping train : 
Thro' the long day they dimm'd the autumn gold 
On all the glistening leaves, and wildly roll'd, 

When the last farewell flush of light was glowing 
Across the sunset sky, 

O'er its rich isles of vaporous glory throwing 
One melancholy dye. 

And when the solemn night 

Came rushing with her might 
Of stormy oracles from caves unknown, 

Then with each fitful blast 

Prophetic murmurs pass'd, 
Wakening or answering some deep Sybil-tone 
Far buried in my breast, yet prompt to rise 
With every gusty wail that o'er the wind-harp flies. 

" Fold, fold thy wings," they cried, " and strive 

no more — 
Faint spirit ! strive no more : for thee too strong 

Are outward ill and wrong, 
And inward wasting fires ! Thou canst not soar 

Free on a starry way, 

Beyond their blighting sway, 
At heaven's high gate serenely to adore ! 
How shouldst thou hope earth's fetters to unbind? 
passionate, yet weak ! trembler to the wind ! 

" Never shall aught but broken music flow 
From joy of thine, deep love, or tearful woe — 
Such homeless notes as through the forest sigh, 
From the reeds' hollow shaken, 
When sudden breezes waken 
Their vague, wild symphony. 
No power is theirs, and no abiding-place 
In human hearts; their sweetness leaves no trace — ■ 
Born only so to die ! 

" Never shall aught but perfume, faint and vain, 
On the fleet pinion of the changeful hour, 
From thy bruised life again 
A moment's essence breathe ; 
Thy life, whose trampled flower 
Into the blessed wreath 
Of household-charities no longer bound, 
Lies pale and withering on the barren ground. 



DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION. 



625 



" So fade, fade on ! Thy gift of love shall cling 

A coiling sadness round thy heart and brain— 
A silent, fruitless, yet undying thing, 

All sensitive to pain ! 
And still the shadow of vain dreams shall fall 
O'er thy mind's world, a daily darkening pall. 
Fold, then, thy wounded wing, and sink subdued 
In cold and unrepining quietude ! " 

Then my soul yielded : spells of numbing breath 
Crept o'er it heavy with a dew of death — 
Its powers, like leaves before the night-rain, closing ; 
And, as by conflict of wild sea- waves toss'd 
On the chill bosom of some desert coast, 
Mutely and hopelessly I lay reposing. 



When silently it seem'd 

As if a soft mist gleam'd 
Before my passive sight, and, slowly curling, 

To many a shape and hue 

Of vision'd beauty grew, 
Like a wrought banner, fold by fold unfurling. 
Oh ! the rich scenes that o'er mine inward eye 

Unrolling then swept by 
With dreamy motion ! Silvery seas were there, 
Lit by large dazzling stars, and arch'd by skies 
Of southern midnight's most transparent dyes; 
And gemm'd with many an island, wildly fair, 
Which floated past me into orient day, 
Still gathering lustre on th' illumin'd way, 
Till its high groves of wondrous flowering-trees 

Colour'd the silvery seas. 

And then a glorious mountain-chain uprose, 

Height above spiry height ! 
A soaring solitude of woods and snows, 

All steep'd in golden light ! 
While as it pass'd, those regal peaks unveiling, 

I heard, methought, a waving of dread wings, 
And mighty sounds, as if the vision hailing, 
From lyres that quiver'd through ten thousand 
strings — 
Or as if waters, forth to music leaping 

From many a cave, the Alpine Echo's hall, 
On their bold way victoriously were sweeping, 
Link'd in majestic anthems! — while through all 
That billowy swell and fall, 
Voices, like ringing crystal, fill'd the air 
With inarticulate melody, that stirr'd 
My being's core ; then, moulding into word 
Their piercing sweetness, bade me rise, and bear 
In that great choral strain my trembling part, 
Of tones by love and faith struck from a human 
heart. 



Return no more, vain bodings of the night ! 

A happier oracle within my soul 
Hath swell'd to power ; a clear, unwavering light 
Mounts through the battling clouds that round 
And to a new control [me roll ; 

Nature's full harp gives forth rejoicing tones, 

Wherein my glad sense owns 
The accordant rush of elemental sound 
To one consummate harmony profound — 
One grand Creation-Hymn, 
Whose notes the seraphim 
Lift to the glorious height of music wing'd and 
crown'd. 

Shall not those notes find echoes in my lyre, 
Faithful though faint 1 Shall not my spirit's fire, 
If slowly, yet unswervingly, ascend 
Now to its fount and end 1 

Shall not my earthly love, all purified, 
Shine forth a heavenward guide, 

An angel of bright power — and strongly bear 

My being upward into holier air, 

Where fiery passion-clouds have no abode, 
And the sky's temple-arch o'erflows with God ] 

The radiant hope new-born 

Expands like rising morn 
In my life's life : and as a ripening rose 
The crimson shadow of its glory throws 
More vivid, hour by hour, on some pure stream ; 

So from that hope are spreading 

Rich hues, o'er nature shedding 
Each day a clearer, spiritual gleam. 

Let not those rays fade from me ! — once enjoy'd, 

Father of Spirits ! let them not depart — 
Leaving the chill'd earth, without form and void, 

Darken'd by mine own heart ! 
Lift, aid, sustain me ! Thou, by whom alone 

All lovely gifts and pure 

In the soul's grasp endure ; 
Thou, to the steps of whose eternal throne 
All knowledge flows — a sea for evermore 
Breaking its crested waves on that sole shore — 
Oh, consecrate my life ! that I may sing 
Of thee with joy that hath a living spring, 
In a full heart of music ! Let my lays 
Through the resounding mountains waft thy praise, 
And with that theme the wood's green cloisters fill, 
And make their quivering, leafy dimness thrill 
To the rich breeze of song ! Oh ! let me wake 

The deep religion, which hath dwelt from yore 
Silently brooding by lone cliff and lake, 
And wildest river-shore ! 



626 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And let me summon all the voices dwelling 
Where eagles build, and cavern'd rills are welling, 
And where the cataract's organ-peal is swelling, 
In that one spirit gather'd to adore ! 

Forgive, Father ! if presumptuous thought 

Too daringly in aspiration rise ! 
Let not thy child all vainly have been taught 

By weakness, and by wanderings, and by sighs 
Of sad confession ! Lowly be my heart, 

And on its penitential altar spread 
The offerings worthless, till thy grace impart 

The fire from heaven, whose touch alone can shed 
Life, radiance, virtue ! — let that vital spark 
Pierce my whole being, wilder'd else and dark ! 

Thine are all holy things — oh, make me thine ! 
So shall I, too, be pure — a living shrine 
Unto that Spirit which goes forth from thee, 

Strong and divinely free, 
Bearing thy gifts of wisdom on its flight, 
And brooding o'er them with a dove-like wing, 
Till thought, word, song, to thee in worship spring, 
Immortally endow'd for liberty and light. 

[This exquisite poem was composed during the Author's 
last illness ; and the following account of her situation at the 
time, from the pen of her sister, cannot fail to be read with 
a deep and painful interest. It is another forcible, visible 
illustration of "the ruling passion strong in death." Happy, 
as in her case, when the direction of the mind is towards all 
that is high, pure, and excellent ! 

"A shuddering thrill pervaded her whole frame, and she 
felt, as she often afterwards declared, a presentiment that 
from that moment her hours were numbered. The same 
evening she was attacked by a fit of ague ; and this insidious 
and harassing complaint continued its visitations for several 
weeks, reducing her poor, wasted form to the most lamentable 
state of debility, and at length retiring only to make way for 
a train of symptoms still more fatal and distressing. Yet, 
while the work of decay was going on thus surely and pro- 
gressively upon the earthly tabernacle, the bright flame 
within continued to burn with a pure and holy light, and, at 
times, even to flash forth with more than wonted brightness. 
The lyric of ' Despondency and Aspiration,' which may be 
considered as her noblest and highest effort, and in which, 
from a feeling that it might be her last work, she felt anxious 
to concentrate all her powers, was written during the few 
intervals accorded her from acute suffering or powerless lan- 
guor. And in the same circumstances she wrote, or rather 
dictated, the series of sonnets called Thoughts during Sick- 
ness, which present so interesting a picture of the calm, sub- 
missive tone of her mind, whether engaged in tender remem- 
brances of the past, or in solemn and reverential speculations 
on the future. The one entitled ' Sickness like Night ' dis- 
closes a view, no less affecting than consolatory, of the sweet 
and blessed peace which hovered round the couch where 
'Mutely and hopelessly she lay reposing.' 

"The last sonnet of the series, entitled ' Recovery,' was 
written under temporary appearances of convalescence, which 
proved as fugitive as they were fallacious."] 



THE HUGUENOT'S FAREWELL. 

I stand upon the threshold stone 

Of mine ancestral hall ; 
I hear my native river moan ; 

I see the night o'er my old forests fall. 

I look round on the darkening vale 

That saw my childhood's plays ; 
The low wind in its rising wail 

Hath a strange tone, a sound of other days. 

But I must rule my swelling breast : 

A sign is in the sky ! 
Bright o'er yon gray rock's eagle-nest 

Shines forth a warning star — it bids me fly. 

My father's sword is in my hand, 

His deep voice haunts mine ear; 
He tells me of the noble band 

Whose lives have left a brooding glory here. 

He bids their offspring guard from stain 

Their pure and lofty faith ; 
And yield up all things, to maintain 

The cause for which they girt themselves to 
death. 

And I obey. I leave their towers 

Unto the stranger's tread, 
Unto the creeping grass and flowers, 

Unto the fading pictures of the dead. 

I leave their shields to slow decay, 

Their banners to the dust : 
I go, and only bear away 

Their old majestic name — a solemn trust ! 

I go up to the ancient hills, 

Where chains may never be, 
Where leap in joy the torrent-rills, 

Where man may worship God, alone and free. 

There shall an altar and a camp 

Impregnably arise ; 
There shall be lit a quenchless lamp, 

To shine, unwavering, through the open 



And song shall midst the rocks be heard, 

And fearless prayer ascend ; 
While, thrilling to God's holy word, 

The mountain-pines in adoration bend. 



THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS. 



627 



And there the burning heart no more 
Its deep thought shall suppress, 

But the long-buried truth shall pour 

Free currents thence, amidst the wilderness. 

Then fare thee well, my mother's bower ! 

Farewell, my father's hearth ! — 
Perish my home ! where lawless power 

Hath rent the tie of love to native earth. 

Perish ! let deathlike silence fall 

Upon the lone abode ; 
Spread fast, dark ivy ! spread thy pall ; — 

I go up to the mountains with my God. 



ANTIQUE GREEK LAMENT. 1 

By the blue waters — the restless ocean-waters, 
Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, 
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one ! 

I pine for thee through all the joyless day — ■ 
Through the long night I pine : the golden sun 
Looks dim since thou hast left me, and the spring 
Seems but to weep. Where art thou, my beloved ? 
Night after night, in fond hope vigilant, 
By the old temple on the breezy cliff, [stream'd 
These hands have heap'd the watch-fire, till it 
Red o'er the shining columns — darkly red 
Along the crested billows ! — but in vain : 
Thy white sail comes not from the distant isles — 
Yet thou wert faithful ever. Oh ! the deep 
Hath shut above thy head — that graceful head ; 
The sea-weed mingles with thy clustering locks ; 
The white sail never will bring back the loved ! 

By the blue waters — the restless ocean-waters, 
Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, 
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one ! 

Where art thou ] — where ? Had I but lingering 

press'd 
On thy cold lips the last long kiss— but smooth'd 
The parted ringlets of thy shining hair [still'd 
With love's fond touch, my heart's cry had been 
Into a voiceless grief : I would have strew'd 
With all the pale flowers of the vernal woods — 
White violets, and the mournful hyacinth, 
And frail anemone, thy marble brow, 

1 The original title given to this poem was The Lament of 
Alcyone, which was altered to its present one, on the sugges- 
tion of a friend. It was written in November 1834. 



In slumber beautiful ! I would have heap'd 
Sweet boughs and precious odours on thy pyre, 
And with mine own shorn tresses hung thine urn, 
And many a garland of the pallid rose : 
But thou liest far away ! No funeral chant, 
Save the wild moaning of the wave, is thine : 
No pyre — save, haply, some long-buried wreck ; 
Thou that wert fairest — thou that wert most loved! 

By the blue waters — the restless ocean-waters, 
Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, 
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one ! 

Come, in the dreamy shadow of the night, 

And speak to me ! E'en though thy voice be 

changed, 
My heart would know it still. Oh, speak to me ! 
And say if yet, in some dim, far-off world, 
Which knows not how the festal sunshine burns, 
If yet, in some pale mead of asphodel, 
We two shall meet again ! Oh, I would quit 
The day rejoicingly — the rosy light — 
All the rich flowers and fountains musical, 
And sweet, familiar melodies of earth, 
To dwell with thee below ! Thou answerest not! 
The powers whom I have call'd upon are mute : 
The voices buried in old whispery caves, 
And by lone river-sources, and amidst 
The gloom and mystery of dark prophet-oaks, 
The wood-gods' haunt — they give me no reply ! 
All silent — heaven and earth ! For evermore 
From the deserted mountains thou art gone — 
For ever from the melancholy groves, 
Whose laurels wail thee with a shivering sound ! 
And I — I pine through all the joyous day, 
Through the long night I pine — as fondly pines 
The night's own bird, dissolving her lorn life 
To song in moonlight woods. Thou hear'st me not ! 
The heavens are pitiless of human tears : 
The deep sea-darkness is about thy head ; 
The white sail never will bring back the loved ! 

By the blue waters — the restless ocean-waters, 
Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, 
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one ! 



THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS. 

INTELLECTUAL POWERS. 

Thought ! Memory ! gems for ever heaping 
High in the illumined chambers of the mind — 



628 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



And thou, divine Imagination! keeping 

Thy lamp's lone star mid shadowy hosts enshrined; 

How in one moment rent and disentwined, 

At Fever's fiery touch, apart they fall, 

Your glorious combinations ! broken all, 

As the sand-pillars by the desert's wind 

Scatter'd to whirling dust ! Oh, soon uncrown'd ! 

Well may your parting swift, your strange return, 

Subdue the soul to lowliness profound, 

Guiding its chasten'd vision to discern 

How by meek Faith heaven's portals must be pass'd, 

Ere it can hold your gifts inalienably fast. 



SICKNESS LIKE NIGHT. 

Thou art like Night, Sickness ! deeply stilling 
"Within my heart the world's disturbing sound, 
And the dim quiet of my chamber filling 
With low, sweet voices by Life's tumult drown'd. 
Thou art like awful Night ! thou gatherest round 
The things that are unseen — though close they lie; 
And with a truth, clear, startling, and profound, 
Giv'st their dread presence to our mental eye. 
Thou art like starry, spiritual Night ! 
High and immortal thoughts attend thy way, 
And revelations, which the common light 
Brings not, though wakening with its rosy ray 
All outward life: — Be welcome, then, thy rod, 
Before whose touch my soul unfolds itself to God. 



ON RETZSCH'S DESIGN OF THE ANGEL 
OF DEATH. 1 

Well might thine awful image thus arise 
With that high calm upon thy regal brow, 
And the deep, solemn sweetness in those eyes, 
Unto the glorious artist ! Who but thou 
The fleeting forms of beauty can endow 
For him with permanence] who make those gleams 
Of brighter life, that colour his lone dreams, 
Immortal things ] Let others trembling bow, 
Angel of Death ! before thee ; — not to those 
Whose spirits with Eternal Truth repose, 

1 This sonnet was suggested by the following passage out of 
Mrs Jameson's Visits and Sketches at Home and Abroad, in 
a description she gives of a visit paid to the artist Retzsch, 
near Dresden : — " Afterwards he placed upon his easel a 
wondrous face which made me shrink back — not with terror, 
for it was perfectly beautiful, — but with awe, for it was un- 
speakably fearful : the hair streamed back from the pale brow 



Art thou a fearful shape ! And oh ! for me, 
How full of welcome would thine aspect shine, 
Did not the cords of strong affection twine 
So fast around my soul, it cannot spring to thee ! 



REMEMBRANCE OF NATURE. 

Nature ! thou didst rear me for thine own, 
With thy free singing-birds and mountain-brooks ; 
Feeding my thoughts in primrose-haunted nooks, 
With fairy fantasies and wood-dreams lone ; 
And thou didst teach me every wandering tone 
Drawn from thy many- whispering trees and waves, 
And guide my steps to founts and sparry caves, 
And where bright mosses wove thee a rich throne 
Midst the green hills : and now that, far estranged 
From all sweet sounds and odours of thy breath, 
Fading I lie, within my heart unchanged, 
So glows the love of thee, that not for death 
Seems that pure passion's fervour— but ordain'd 
To meet on brighter shores thy majesty unstain'd. 



FLIGHT OF THE SPIRIT. 

Whither, oh ! whither wilt thou wing thy way 1 
What solemn region first upon thy sight 
Shall break, unveil'd for terror or delight 1 
What hosts, magnificent in dread array, 
My spirit ! when thy prison-house of clay, 
After long strife is rent 1 Fond, fruitless quest ! 
The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest, 
Sees but a few green branches o'er him play, 
And through their parting leaves, by fits reveal'd, 
A glimpse of summer sky ; nor knows the field 
Wherein his dormant powers must yet be tried. 
Thou art that bird ! — of what beyond thee lies 
Far in the untrack'd, immeasurable skies, 
Knowing but this— that thou shalt find thy Guide! 



FLOWERS. 

Welcome, pure and lovely forms! again 
Unto the shadowy stillness of my room ! 

— the orbs of sight appeared at first two dark, hollow, un- 
fathomable spaces, like those in a skull ; but when I drew 
nearer and looked attentively, two lovely living eyes looked 
at me again out of the depth of the shadow, as if from the 
bottom of an abyss. The mouth was divinely sweet, but sad, 
and the softest repose rested on every feature. This, he told 
me, was the Angel of Death." 



THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS. 



629 



For not alone ye bring a joyous train 
Of summer-thoughts attendant on your bloom — 
Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom, 
Of the low murmurs filling mossy dells, 
Of stars that look down on your folded bells 
Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume 
Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove 
Like sudden music : more than this ye bring- 
Far more ; ye whisper of the all-fostering love 
Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove-like 

wing 
Broods o'er the sufferer drawing fever'd breath, 
Whether the couch be that of life or death. 



RECOVERY. 1 

Back, then, once more to breast the waves of life, 

To battle on against the unceasing spray, 

To sink o'erwearied in the stormy strife, 

And rise to strive again ; yet on my way, 

Oh ! linger still, thou light of better day ! 

Born in the hours of loneliness : and you, 

Ye childlike thoughts ! the holy and the true — 

Ye that came bearing, while subdued I lay, 

The faith, the insight of life's vernal morn 

Back on my soul, a clear, bright sense, new-born, 

Now leave me not ! but as, profoundly pure, 

1 Written under the false impression occasioned by a tem- 
porary improvement in strength. 

[ 3 After the exhausting vicissitudes of days when it seemed 
that the night of death was indeed at hand— of nights when 
it was thought that she could never see the light of morning- 
wonderful even to those who had witnessed, throughout her 
illness, the clearness and brightness of the never-dying prin- 
ciple, amidst the desolation and decay of its earthly com- 
panion, was the consecrated power and facility with which, 
on Sunday, the 26th of April, she dictated to her brother 
the "Sabbath Sonnet," the last strain of the "sweet 
singer," whose harp was henceforth to be hung upon the 
willows. 

Amongst the many tributes of interest and admiration 



A blue stream rushes through a darker lake 
Unchanged, e'en thus with me your journey take, 
Wafting sweet airs of heaven thro' this low world 
obscure. 



SABBATH SONNET. 2 

COMPOSED BY MES HEMANS A FEW DATS BEFORE HER 
DEATH, AND DICTATED TO HER BROTHER. 

How many blessed groups this hour are bending, 
Thro' England's primrose meadow-paths, their way 
Towards spire and tower, midst shadowy elms 



Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallow'd 

day! 
The halls from old heroic ages gray 
Pour their fair children forth ; and hamlets low, 
With whose thick orchard-blooms the soft winds 
Send out their inmates in a happy flow, [play, 
Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread 
With them those pathways — to the feverish bed 
Of sickness bound ; yet, my God ! I bless 
Thy mercy, that with Sabbath-peace hath fill'd 
My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings still'd 
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness ! 

26th April 1835, 

elicited by a poem, so remarkable to all readers — so precious to 
many hearts — the following expressions, contained in a letter 
from the late venerable Bishop of Salisbury to Mrs Joanna 
Baillie, and already published by the latter, are too pleasingly 
applicable not to be inserted here. " There is something 
peculiarly touching in the time, the subject, and the occasion 
of this deathbed sonnet, and in the affecting contrast between 
the ' blessed groups ' she describes, and her own (humanly 
speaking) helpless state of sickness; and that again contrasted 
with the hopeful state of mind with which the sonnet con- 
cludes, expressive both of the quiet comforts of a Christian 
Sabbath, and the blessed fruits of profitable application. Her 
' Sweet Chimes ' on ' Sabbath-peace,' appear to me very cha- 
racteristic of the writer."— Memoir, p. 311-12.] 



APPENDIX. 



CRITICISMS ON MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



DELTA. 

"We cannot allow these verses 1 to adorn, with a sad 
beauty, the pages of this Magazine — more especially as they 
are the last composed by their distinguished writer, and that 
only a few days before her death — without at least a passing 
tribute of regret for an event which has cast a shadow of 
gloom through the sunshiny fields of contemporary literature. 
But two months ago, the beautiful lyric entitled ' Despon- 
dency and Aspiration,' appeared in these pages, and now the 
sweet fountain of music from which that prophetic strgin 
gushed has ceased to flow. The highly gifted and accom- 
plished, the patient, the meek, and long-suffering Felicia 
Hemans, is no more. She died on the night of Saturday, 
the 16th of May 1835, at Dublin, and met her fate with all 
the calm resignation of a Christian, conscious that her spirit 
was winging its flight to another and a better world, where 
' the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.' 

" Without disparagement of the living, we scarcely hesi- 
tate to say, that in Mrs Hemans our female literature has 
lost perhaps its brightest ornament. To Joanna Baillie she 
might be inferior, not only in vigour of conception, but in 
the power of metaphysically analysing those sentiments and 
feelings which constitute the basis of human actions, — to 
Mrs Jameson in the critical perception which, from detached 
fragments of spoken thought, can discriminate the links which 
bind all into a distinctive character, — to Miss Landon in elo- 
quent facility, — to Caroline Bowles in simple pathos, — and 
to Mary Mitford in power of thought ; but as a female writer, 
influencing the female mind, she has undoubtedly stood, for 
some bypast years, the very first in the first rank ; and this 
pre-eminence has been acknowledged, not only in her own 
land, but wherever the English tongue is spoken, whether on 
the banks of the eastern Ganges or the western Mississippi. 
Her path was her own ; and shoals of imitators have arisen, 
alike at home and on the other side of the Atlantic, who, 
destitute of her animating genius, have mimicked her themes, 
and parodied her sentiments and language, without being 
able to reach its height. In her poetry, religious truth and 
intellectual beauty meet together ; and assuredly it is not the 
less calculated to refine the taste and exalt the imagination, 
because it addresses itself almost exclusively to the better 
feelings of our nature alone. Over all her pictures of humanity 
are spread the glory and the grace reflected from purity of 
morals, delicacy of perception and conception, sublimity of 
religious faith, and warmth of patriotism ; and, turning from 
the dark and degraded, whether in subject or sentiment, she 
1 " Sabbath Sonnet." 



seeks out those verdant oases in the desert of human life on 
which the affections may most pleasantly rest. Her poetry 
is intensely and entirely feminine — and, in our estimation, 
this is the highest praise which could be awarded it, — it could 
have been written by a woman only ; for although, in the 
' Records ' of her sex, we have the female Character delineated 
in all the varied phases of baffled passion and of ill-requited 
affection ; of heroical self-denial, and of withering hope 
deferred ; of devotedness tried in the furnace of affliction, 
and of 

' Gentle feelings long subdued, 
Subdued and cherish'd long ; ' 

yet its energy resembles that of the dove, ' pecking the hand 
that hovers o'er its mate,' and its exaltation of thought is not 
of the daring kind, which doubts and derides, or even questions, 
but which clings to the anchor of hope, and looks forward with 
faith and reverential fear. 

" Mrs Hemans has written much, and, as with all authors 
in like predicament, her strains are of various degrees of ex- 
cellence. Independently of this, her different works will be 
differently estimated, as to their relative value, by different 
minds ; but among the lyrics of the English language which 
can scarcely die, we hesitate not to assign places to ' The 
Hebrew Mother ' — ' The Treasures of the Deep ' — ' The Spirit's 
Return *—' The Homes of England'— 'The Better Land' — 
' The Hour of Death '— ' The Trumpet '—and ' The Graves of 
a Household.' In these ' gems of purest ray serene, ' the pecu- 
liar genius of Mrs Hemans breathes, and burns, and shines 
pre-eminent ; for her forte lay in depicting whatever tends to 
beautify and embellish domestic life — the gentle overflowings 
of love and friendship — ' homebred delights and heartfelt 
happiness' — the associations of local attachment — and the 
influences of religious feelings over the soul, whether arising 
from the varied circumstances and situations of man, or from 
the aspects of external nature. We would only here add, by 
way of remark, that the writings of Mrs Hemans seem to 
divide themselves into two pretty distinct portions — the first 
comprehending her ' Modern Greece,' 'Wallace,' ' Dartmoor,' 
'Sceptic,' 'Historic Scenes,' and other productions, up to 
the publication of ' The Forest Sanctuary ; ' and the latter 
comprehending that volume, ' The Records of Woman,' ' The 
Scenes and Hymns of Life,' and all her subsequent produc- 
tions. In her earlier works, she follows the classic model, as 
contradistinguished from the romantic, and they are inferior 
in that polish of style, and almost gorgeous richness of language, 
in which her maturer compositions are set. It is evident that 
new stores of thought were latterly opened up to her, in a 



CRITICISMS ON MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



631 



more extended acquaintance with the literature of Spain and 
Germany, as well as by a pro founder study of the writings of 
our great poetical regenerator— Wordsworth." — Blackwood's 
Magazine, July 1835. 



MISS LANDON. 

" Did we not know this world to be but a place of trial — 
our bitter probation for another and for a better— how strange 
in its severity would seem the lot of genius in a woman! The 
keen feeling — the generous enthusiasm — the lofty aspiration 
and the delicate perception — are given but to make the pos- 
sessor unfitted for her actual position. It is well ! — such gifts, 
in their very contrast to the selfishness and the evil with 
which they are surrounded, inform us of another world — they 
breathe of their home, which is heaven ; the spiritual and the 
inspired in this life but fit us to believe in that which is to 
come. With what a sublime faith is this divine reliance 
expressed in all Mrs Hemans's later writings ! As the clouds 
towards nightfall melt away on a fine summer evening into 
the clear amber of the west, leaving a soft and unbroken azure 
whereon the stars may shine ; so the troubles of life, its vain 
regrets and vainer desires, vanished before the calm close of 
existence — the hopes of heaven rose steadfast at last — the light 
shonefrom the windows of her home, as she approached unto it. 

' No tears for thee ! — though light be from us gone 
"With thy soul's radiance, bright and restless one ! 

No tears for thee ! 
They that have loved an exile must not mourn 
To see him parting for his native bourne, 
O'er the dark sea.' 

" We have noticed this yearning for affection — unsatisfied, 
but still unsubdued — as one characteristic of Mrs Hemans's 
poetry : the rich picturesque was another. Highly accom- 
plished, the varied stores that she possessed were all subser- 
vient to one master science. Mistress both of German and 
Spanish, the latter country appears to have peculiarly capti- 
vated her imagination. At that period when the fancy is 
peculiarly alive to impression — when girlhood is so new, that 
the eagerness of childhood is still in its delights — Spain was, 
of all others, the country on which public attention was fixed 
— victory after victory earned the British flag from the ocean 
to the Pyrenees ; but, with that craving for the ideal which 
is so great a feature in her writings, the present was insuffi- 
cient, and she went back upon the past ; — the romantic his- 
tory of the Moors was like a storehouse, with treasures gor- 
geous like those of its own Alhambra. 

" It is observable in her minor poems, that they turn upon 
an incident rather than a feeling. Feelings, true and deep, 
are developed ; but one single emotion is never the original 
subject. Some graceful or touching anecdote or situation 
catches her attention, and its poetry is developed in a strain 
of mourning melody, and in a vein of gentle moralising. I 
always wish, in reading my favourite poets, to know what 
first suggested my favourite poems. Few things would be 
more interesting than to know under what circumstances they 
were composed — how much of individual sentiment there was 
in each, or how, on some incident seemingly even opposed, 
they had contrived to ingraft their own associations. What 
a history of the heart would such annals reveal ! Every poem 
is in itself an impulse. 

"Besides the ideal and the picturesque, Mrs Hemans is 
distinguished by her harmony. I use the word harmony 



advisedly, in contradistinction to melody. Melody implies 
something more careless, more simple, than belongs to her 
style ; it is song by snatches ; our English ballads are remark- 
able for it. To quote an instance or two : there is a verse in 
that of Yarrow Water — 

O wind that wandereth from the south ! 

Seek where my love repaireth, 
And blow a kiss to his dear mouth, 

And tell me how he fareth.' 

Nothing can exceed the tender sweetness of these lines ; but 
there is no skill. Again, in Faire Rosamonde, the verse that 
describes the cruelty of Eleanor — 

' "With that she struck her on the mouth, 
So dyed double red ; 
Hard was the heart that gave the blow, 
Soft were the lips that bled.' 

How musical is the alliteration ! but it is music which, like 
that of the singing brook, has sprung up of itself. Now, Mrs 
Hemans has the most perfect skill in her science ; nothing can 
be more polished than her versification. Every poem is like a 
piece of music, with its eloquent pauses, its rich combinations, 
and its swelling chords. Who that has ever heard, can forget 
the exquisite flow of ' The Voice of Spring ? ' — 

* I come ! I come ! — ye have call'd me long : 
I come o'er the mountains with light and song ' 
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, 
By the winds that tell of the violet's birth, 
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, 
By the green leaves opening as I pass.' 

It is like the finest order of Italian singing — pure, high, and 
scientific. 

" I can never sufficiently regret that it was not my good 
fortune to know Mrs Hemans personally : it was an honour 
I should have estimated so highly — a happiness that I should 
have enjoyed so keenly. I never even met with an acquain- 
tance of hers but once ; that once, however, was much. I 
knew Miss Jewsbury, the late lamented Mrs Fletcher. She 
delighted in speaking of Mrs Hemans ; she spoke of her with 
the appreciation of one fine mind comprehending another, and 
with the earnest affection of a woman and a friend. She 
described her conversation as singularly fascinating— full of 
poetry, very felicitous in illustration by anecdote — happy, too, 
in quotation, and very rich in imagery; ' in short, her own 
poem on " The Treasures of the Deep" would best describe 
it.' She mentioned a very striking simile to which a conver- 
sation on Mrs Hemans's own poem of ' The Sceptic ' had led : 
— ' Like Sinbad the sailor, we are often shipwrecked on a 
strange shore. We despair ; but hope comes when least ex- 
pected. We pass through the gloomy caverns of doubt into 
the free air and blessed sunshine of conviction and belief.' I 
asked her if she thought Mrs Hemans a happy person, and 
she said, ' No ; her enjoyment is feverish, and she desponds. 
She is like a lamp whose oil is consumed by the very light 
which it yields.' What a cruel thing is the weakness of 
memory ! How little can its utmost efforts recall of conver- 
sation that was once an instruction and a delight ! 

" To the three characteristics of Mrs Hemans' poetry which 
have already been mentioned — viz. the ideal, the picturesque, 
and the harmonious — a fourth must be added, — the moral. 
Nothing can be more pure, more feminine and exalted, than 
the spirit which pervades the whole ; it is the intuitive sense 
of right, elevated and strengthened into a principle. It is a 
glorious and a beautiful memory to bequeath ; but she who 
left it is little to be envied. Open the volumes which she has 
left, legacies from many various hours, and what a record of 



632 



APPENDIX. 



wasted feelings and disappointed hopes may be traced in their 
sad and sweet complainings ! Yet Mrs Hemans was spared 
some of the keenest mortifications of a literary career. She 
knew nothing of it as a profession which has to make its way 
through poverty, neglect, and obstacles : she lived apart in a 
small, affectionate circle of friends. The high-road of life, 
with its crowds and contention — its heat, its noise, and its 
dust that rests on all — was for her happily at a distance ; yet 
even in such green nest, the bird could not fold its wings, and 
sleep to its own music. There came the aspiring, the unrest, 
the aching sense of being misunderstood, the consciousness 
that those a thousand times inferior were yet more beloved. 
Genius places a woman in an unnatural position ; notoriety 
frightens away affection ; and superiority has for its attendant 
fear, not love. Its pleasantest emotions are too vivid to be 
lasting: hope may sometimes, 

* Eaising its bright face, 
With a free gush of sunny tears, erase 
The characters of anguish : ' 

but, like the azure glimpses between thunder-showers, the 
clouds gather more darkly around for the passing sunshine. 
The heart sinks back on its solitary desolation. In every page 
of Mrs Hemans' writings is this sentiment impressed. "What is 
the conclusion of ' Corinne crowned at the Capitol ? ' 

' Eadiant daughter of the sun • 
Now thy living wreath is won. 
Crown'd of Rome ! — oh, art thou not 
Happy in that glorious lot ? 
Happier, happier far than thou 
With the laurel on thy brow, 
She that makes the humblest hearth 
Lovely but to one on earth.' 

" What is poetry, and what is a poetical career ? The first 
is to have an organisation of extreme sensibility, which the 
second exposes bareheaded to the rudest weather. The origi- 
nal impulse is irresistible— all professions are engrossing when 
once begun ; and, acting with perpetual stimulus, nothing 
takes more complete possession of its follower than literature. 
But never can success repay its cost. The work appears — it 
lives in the light of popular applause ; but truly might the 
writer exclaim,— 

* It is my youth— it is my bloom — it is my glad free heart 
I cast away for thee— for thee— ill-fated as thou art.' 

If this be true even of one sex, how much more true of the 
other ! Ah ! Fame to a woman is indeed but a royal mourn- 
ing in purple for happiness."— New Monthly Magazine for 
August 1835. 



H. F. CHO-RLEF. 

" Though respect for the memory of the dead, and delicacy 
towards the living, enjoin us to be brief in alluding to the 
events of her life, we may speak freely, and at length, of the 
history of her mind, and the circumstances of her literary 
career, in the course of which she deserved and acquired a 
European reputation as the first of our poetesses living, and 
still before the public. Few have written so much, or written 
so well, as Mrs Hemans; few have entwined the genuine 
fresh thoughts and impressions of then* own minds so inti- 
mately, with their poetical fancies, as she did ; few have 
undergone more arduous and reverential preparation for the 
service of song— for, from childhood, her thirst for knowledge 
was extreme, and her reading great and varied. Those who, 
while admitting the high-toned beauty of her poetry, accused 



it of monotony of style and subject, (they could not deny to 
it the praise of originality, seeing that it founded a school of 
imitators in England, and a yet larger in America,) little 
knew to what historical research she had applied herself— how 
far and wide she had sought for food with which to fill her 
eager mind. It is true that she used only a part of the mass 
of information which she had collected — (for she never wrote 
on calculation, but from the strong impulse of the moment ; 
and it was her nature intimately to take home to herself, and 
appropriate only what was high-hearted, imaginative, and 
refined ;) — but the writer of this notice has seen manuscript 
collections of extracts made in the course of these youthful 
studies, sufficient of themselves to justify his assertion, if her 
poems (like those of every genuine poet) did not contain a still 
better record of the progress of her mind. Her knowledge of 
classic literature may be distinctly traced in her ' Sceptic,' her 
' Modern Greece,' and a hundred later lyrics based upon what 
Bulwer so happily calls ' the Graceful Superstition.' Her 
study and admiration of the works of ancient Greek and 
Roman art, strengthened into an abiding love of the beauti- 
ful, which breathes both in the sentiment and in the structure 
of every line she wrote, (for there are few of our poets more 
faultlessly musical in then- versification;) and when, subse- 
quently, she opened for herself the treasuries of Spanish and 
German legend and literature, how thoroughly she had 
imbued herself with their spirit may be seen in her ' Siege 
of Valencia,' in her glorious and chivalresque ' Songs of the 
Cid,' and in her ' Lays of Many Lands,' the idea of which 
was suggested by Herder's ' Stimmen der Volker in Liedern.' 
" But though her mind was enriched by her wide acquain- 
tance with the poetical and historical literature of other coun- 
tries, it possessed a strong and decidedly marked character 
of its own, which coloured all her productions — a character 
which, though any thing but feeble or sentimental, was 
essentially feminine. An eloquent modern critic (Mrs Jame- 
son) has rightly said, ' that Mrs Hemans' poems could not 
have been written by a man ;' their love is without selfishness, 
their passion without a stain of this world's coarseness, their 
high heroism (and to illustrate this assertion we would men- 
tion « Clotilda,' ' the Lady of Provence,' and the ' Switzer's 
Wife, ') unsullied by any grosser alloy of mean ambition. Her 
religion, too, is essentially womanly — fervent, clinging to 
belief, and ' hoping on, hoping ever,' in spite of the peculiar 
trials appointed to her sex, so exquisitely described in the 
' Evening Prayer in a Girls' School ' — 

' Silent tears to weep, 
And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, 

And sumless riches from affection's deep ! 
To pour on broken reeds— a wasted shower ! 

And to make idols, and to find them clay, 
And to bewail that worship.' 

" If such was the mind of her works, the manner in which 
she wrought out her conceptions was equally individual and 
excellent. Her imagination was rich, chaste, and glowing : 
those who saw only its published fruits little guessed at the 
extent of its variety. 

"It is difficult to enumerate the titles of her principal 
works. Her first childish efforts were published when she 
was only thirteen, and we can speak of her subsequent poems, 
' Wallace,' ' Dartmoor,' ' The Restoration of the "Works of 
Art to Italy,' and her ' Dramatic Scenes,' only from memory. 
These were probably written in the happiest period of her life, 
when her mind was rapidly developing itself, and its progress 
was aided by judicious and intelligent counsellors, among 
whom may be mentioned Bishop Heber. A favourable notice 
of one of these poems will be found in Lord Byron's letters ; 



CEITICISMS ON MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



633 



and the fame of her opening talent had reached Shelley, who 
addressed a very singular correspondence to her. With 
respect to the world in general, her name began to be known 
by the publication of her ' Welsh Melodies,' her ' Siege of 
Valencia, 'and the scattered lyrics which appeared in the New 
Monthly Magazine, then under the direction of Campbell. 
She had previously contributed a series of prose papers, on 
Foreign Literature, to Constable's Edinburgh Magazine, 
which, with little exception, are the only specimens of that 
style of writing ever attempted by her. To the ' Siege of 
Valencia' succeeded rapidly her ' Forest Sanctuary,' her 

* Records of Woman,' (the most successful of her works,) her 

• Songs of the Affections,' (containing, perhaps, her finest 
poem, ' The Spirit's Return,') her ' National Lyrics and Songs 
for Music,' (most of which have been set to music by her 
sister, and become popular,) and her ' Scenes and Hymns of 
Life.' A few words with respect to the direction of her powers 
in later days may be worthily extracted from a letter of hers 
which lies now before us. She had been urged by a friend 
to undertake a prose work, and a series of ' Artistic Novels,' 
something after the manner of Tieck, and Goethe's Kunst- 
Romanen, as likely to be congenial to her own tastes and 
habits of mind, and to prove most acceptable to the public. 

" ' I have now,' she says, ' passed through the feverish and 
somewhat visionary state of mind often connected with the 
passionate study of art in early life ; deep affections and deep 
sorrows seem to have solemnised my whole being, and I now 
feel as if bound to higher and holier tasks, which, though I 
may occasionally lay aside, I could not long wander from 
without some sense of dereliction. I hope it is no self-delusion, 
but I cannot help sometimes feeling as if it were my true task 
to enlarge the sphere of sacred poetry, and extend its influence. 
When you receive my volume of ' Scenes and Hymns,' you 
will see what I mean by enlarging its sphere, though my plan 
as yet is very imperfectly developed.' 

" Besides the works here enumerated, we should mention 
her tragedy, ' The Vespers of Palermo,' which, though con- 
taining many fine thoughts and magnificent bursts of poetry, 
was hardly fitted for the stage, and the songs which she 
contributed to Colonel Hodges' ' Peninsular Melodies ;' and 
we cannot but once more call the attention of our readers to 
her last lyric, ' Despondency and Aspiration,' published in 
Blackwood's Magazine for May 1835. It is the song of the 
swan — its sweetest and its last l' n — Athenaeum. No. 395. 



" An elaborate summary of the principal features of Mrs 
Henians' character, or of the general and individual merits 
of her poems, can hardly be necessary, if the foregoing me- 
morials have fulfilled the design of their editor. The woman 
and the poetess were in her too inseparably united to admit 
of their being considered apart from each other. In her 
private letters, as in her published works, she shows herself 
high-minded, affectionate, grateful — wayward in her self- 
neglect, delicate to fastidiousness in her tastes — in her religion 
fervent without intolerance — eager to acquire knowledge, as 
eager to impart it to others — earnestly devoted to her art, 
and in that art to the service of all things beautiful, and 
noble, and holy. She may have fallen short of some of her 
predecessors in vigour of mind — of some of her contemporaries 
in variety of fancy ; but she surpassed them all in the use of 
language, in the employment of a rich, chaste, and glowing 
imagery, and in the perfect music of her versification. It 
will be long before the chasm left in our female literature by 

1 It has already been shown that this was not the ease. 



her death will be worthily filled : she will be long remembered 
— long spoken of by those who know her works — yet longer 
by those who knew herself, — 

' Kindly and gently, but as of one 
For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone — 
As of a bird from a chain unbound, 
As of the wanderer whose home is found, 
So let it be !'" 

Memorials of Mrs Hemans, p. 354-6. 



ECLECTIC REVIEW. 

" Mrs Hemans, if not in all respects the most gifted of the 
female writers who form so bright a constellation in the sphere 
of our contemporary literature, surpassed them all in those 
attributes of genius which characterise the lyric poets. With- 
out possessing the dramatic conception of Joanna Baillie or 
Mary Mitford — the masculine vigour and depth of thought 
displayed by the late Mrs Fletcher, (better known as Miss 
Jewsbury,) or the fertile imagination of others of our delightful 
female prose writers — she outshone them all in her peculiar 
orbit ; and though she wrote too much, and often too care- 
lessly, to sustain, in all her compositions, the high standard 
of poetic excellence to which she often attained, her best pro- 
ductions, in her own rich and peculiar vein, rival those of the 
mightiest masters of English song; while their exquisitely 
feminine character justify the remark, that ' the poetry of 
Mrs Hemans could have been written only by a woman.' " — 
E. E.,1836. 



PROFESSOR NORTON. 

" We have now received the last of the imperishable gifts 
of Mrs Hemans' genius. The period of her spirit's trials and 
sufferings, and its glorious course on earth, has been com- 
pleted. She has left an unclouded fame ; and we may say, 
in her own words : — 

' No tears for thee [—though light be from us gone 
With thy soul's radiance; .... 

No tears for thee ! 
They that have loved an exile must not mourn 
To see him parting for his native bourne 

O'er the dark sea.' 

" As this, therefore, will be the last time that we shall re- 
view any production of Mrs Hemans, we may be permitted 
to recall, with a melancholy pleasure, the admiration and 
delight with which we have followed the progress of her 
genius. The feelings with which her works are now gene- 
rally regarded have been expressed in no publication earlier, 
more frequently, or more warmly, than in our own. With- 
out repeating what we have already said, we shall now 
endeavour to point out some of their features, considered in 
relation to that moral culture in which alone such writings 
can exist. 

" Mrs Hemans may be considered as the representative of 
a new school of poetry, or, to speak more precisely, her 
poetry discovers characteristics of the highest kind, which 
belong almost exclusively to that of later times, and have 
been the result of the gradual advancement, and especially 
the moral progress, of mankind. It is only when man, under 
the influence of true religion, feels himself connected with 



6U 



APPENDIX. 



whatever is infinite, that his affections and powers are fully 
developed. The poetry of an immortal being must be of a 
different character from that of an earthly being. But, in 
recurring to the classic poets of antiquity, we find that, in 
their conceptions, the element of religious faith was wanting. 
Their mythology was to them no object of sober belief ; and, 
had it been so, was adapted not to produce but to annihilate 
devotion. They had no thought of regarding the universe as 
created, animated, and ruled by God's all-powerful and 
omniscient goodness. To them it was a world of matter, — 
' The fair humanities of old religion, 
The power, the beauty, and the majesty 
That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain, 
Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring, 
Or chasms and watery depths,' 

never existed except in the imagination of modern poets. 
The beings intended were the ' fair humanities ' of Ovid's 
Metamorphoses, whose attributes, derived from the baser 
parts of our nature, were human passions lawlessly indulged, 
accompanied with more than mortal power. Gibbon, who 
was any thing rather than what he affected to be — a philoso- 
pher — speaks of ' the elegant mythology of the Greeks.' The 
great fountains of their popular and poetical mythology were 
Homer and Hesiod. Hesiod does not surpass Homer in the 
agreeable or moral character of his fictions ; and, as regards 
the elegance of the mythology found in the great epic poet, a 
single passage, if we had no other means of judging, might 
settle the question, the address of Jupiter to Juno at the 
commencement of the Fifteenth Book of the Iliad : — 
* Oh, versed in wiles, 
Juno! thy mischief-teeming mind perverse 
Hath plotted this ; thou hast contrived the hnrt 
Of Hector, and hast driven his host to flight. 
I know not but thyself mayst chance to reap 
The first fruits of thy cunning, scourged by me. 
Hast thou forgotten how I hung thee once 
On high, with two huge anvils at thy feet, 
And bound with force-defying cord of gold 
Thy wrists together ? In the heights of heaven 
Did I suspend thee. With compassion moved, 
The assembled gods thy painful sufferings saw, 
But help could yield thee none ; for whom I seized, 
Hurl'd through the portal of the skies, he reach'd 
The distant earth, and scarce survived the fall.' 

I thus remind thee now, that thou may'st cease 
Henceforth from artifice, and mayst be taught 
How little all the dalliance and the love. 
Which, stealing down from heaven, thou hast by fraud 
Obtain'd from me shall favour thy designs.' 

" It may be incidentally remarked, that these lines illus- 
trate not merely the features of the ancient mythology, 
but also the condition of woman as treated by the heroes 
of Homer and by his contemporaries. We happen just to 
have opened upon another striking example of the elegance 
of the ancient mythology during the Augustan age. It is a 
passage of Ovid, almost too indecent and silly to be alluded to, 
though Addison was not ashamed to translate it, beginning— 
* Forte Jovem memorant, diffusum nectare, curas 
Seposuisse graves, vacuaque agitasse remissos 
Cum Junone jocos.' 1 
" From the passage referred to, we may judge something 
of the convivial manners of the Romans, and of the habits of 
intercourse between the sexes. 

1 " It is related that Jove chanced, being exhilarated by nectar, to 
lay aside his weighty cares, and interchange pleasant jokes with idle 
Juno." 

2 See " De Republica," lib. ii., pp. 373-383. 

3 See " De Republica," lib. iii. p. 391. 



"It is remarkable that, in all religious and moral concep- 
tions, the noblest materials of poetry, the philosophers were 
very far in advance of the poets. ' The Fables of Hesiod and 
Homer,' says Plato, ' are especially to be censured. They 
have uttered the greatest falsehoods concerning the greatest 
beings.' Referring to the loathsome and abominable fables 
about Ccelus, Saturn, and Jupiter, he says — ' We must not 
tell our youth that he who commits the greatest iniquity does 
nothing strange, nor he who inflicts the most cruel punish- 
ment upon his father when injured by him ; but that he is 
only doing what was done by the first and greatest of the 
gods.' A little after he subjoins : — ' The chaining of Juno by 
her son, the throwing of Vulcan from heaven by his father, 
because he attempted to defend his mother from being beaten , 
and the battles of the gods described by Homer, are not fic- 
tions to be allowed in our city, whether explained allegorically 
or not.' ' Though we praise many things in Homer,' he says, 
' we shall not praise him when he represents Jupiter as send- 
ing a lying dream to Agamemnon, nor iEschylus when he 
makes Thetis complain of having been deceived by Apollo.' 
' When any one thus speaks of the gods, we are indignant ; 
we grant no permission for such writings, nor shall we suffer 
teachers to use them in the instruction of youth.' 2 

" The poets of this nation did not, in Plato's opinion, 
represent their heroes as more amiable or respectable than 
their gods. ' We shall not,' he says, ' suffer those of whom 
we have the charge to believe that Achilles, the son of a 
goddess, was so full of evil passions as to unite in himself two 
opposite vices — avaricious meanness, and insolence towards 
gods and men. Nor shall we allow it to be said that Theseus, 
the son of Neptune, and Perithous, the son of Jove, rushed 
forth to the commission of such abominable robberies, or that 
any son of a god or any hero committed those abominable and 
impious acts which are now imputed to them in the fictions 
of the poets.' ' Such fictions are pernicious to those who hear 
them ; for every bad man finds a license for himself, in the 
belief that those nearly related to the gods do and have done 
such deeds. They are, then, to be suppressed, lest they pro- 
duce a strong tendency to wickedness in our youth.' 3 

" Such were the sentiments of the most poetical of Grecian 
philosophers concerning the religious and moral character of 
the poets of his nation ; and he remarks in addition upon the 
gloomy fancies of Homer concerning the state of departed 
souls, as neither true nor useful, but adapted to produce un- 
manly fears, and therefore not to be listened to by those who, 
as freemen , should dread slavery more than death. During 
the period between Homer and Virgil, a misty brightness had 
spread over the poetic ideas of the future abodes of the 
blessed ; but the Elysium and Tartarus of poetry were but 
fictions, awakening no serious hopes nor fears, and having 
no power over the heart. These imaginations of a future life 
were connected with no just and ennobling conceptions of 
the purposes of our existence, of the spiritual nature of man, 
or of that endless progress to which we may look forward. 
The heroes of Elysium found their delight in the meaner plea- 
sures of this life, — 

' Quse gratia currum 
Armorumque fuit vivis, quse cura nitentes 
Pascere equos, eadem sequitur tellure repostos. 
Conspicit, ecce, alios dextra laevaque per herbam 
"Vescentes, ketumque chora pseana canentes.' 4 

"Thus the ancient poets were shut out from the whole 

4 " The love of horses which they had alive, 
And care of chariots, after death survive. 
In bands reclining on the grassy plain, 
They feasted and pour'd forth a joyful strain." 

See Dryden's " Virgil." 



CEITICISMS ON MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



635 



sphere of religious sentiment ; and all those numberless con- 
ceptions and feelings that spring from our knowledge of God 
and the sense of our own immortality, are absent from their 
writings, while this whole exhaustless domain has been laid 
open to the poets of later times. A single example may illus- 
trate what has been said. Let us take the concluding verses 
of Mrs Hemans's ' Fountain of Oblivion :*— 

* Fill with forgetfulness !— there are, there are 
Voices whose music I have loved too well ; 
Eyes of deep gentleness— but they are far — 
Never! oh! never, in my home to dwell ! 

Take their soft looks from off my yearning soul — 
Fill high th' oblivious bowl ! 

* Yet pause again !— with memory wilt thou cast 
The undying hope away, of memory born ? 
Hope of reunion, heart to heart atlast; 

No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn ? 
Wouldst thou erase all records of delight 
That make such visions bright ? 

* Fill with forgetfulness, fill high ! yet stay— 

'Tis from the past we shadow forth the land 
Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way, 
And the soul's friends be wreathed in one bright band. 
Pour the sweet waters back on their own rill : 

I must remember still. 

'For their sake, for the dead— whose image naught 
May dim within the temple of my breast — 
For their love's sake, which now no earthly thought 
May shake or trouble with its own unrest, 
Though the past haunt me as a spirit — yet 
I ask not to forget.' 

" The whole train of emotion and thought in these verses 
is of a character wholly unknown to the classic days of 
Greece and Rome. To imagine any thing corresponding to 
it in the work of an ancient poet, is to bring together con- 
ceptions the most incongruous. 

"Here it may be worth while, in order to prevent our- 
selves from being misunderstood, to observe, that we do not 
mean to depreciate the value of the study of the ancient 
poets. After those inquiries by which the truths of religion 
are established, there are none of more interest or importance 
than such as relate to the mind and heart of man, and open 
to us a knowledge of what he has been, and what he may be 
on earth. But, to attain this knowledge, we must acquaint 
ourselves with the moral and intellectual character of our 
race, as it has existed, and exists, under influences and forms 
of society very unlike each other. In this research, no period 
can be compared in interest with a few centuries in the his- 
tory of Athens and Rome, which have left traces still so 
deeply impressed upon the civilised world. Thus, in studying 
the history of human nature, the Grecian and Roman poets 
furnish some of our most important materials. We may dis- 
cover in them a source of sentiments and opinions that still 
affect men's minds. Homer carries us back to remote Pagan 
antiquity, on which his writings shed a light afforded by no 
other; and, at the same time, having been regarded as the 
undisputed master-poet by his countrymen, (for this Plato 
himself does not question, * he shows us what were the topics 
by which their imaginations were most affected during the 
period of their greatest civilisation. The dramatic poets of 
Athens reflect the Athenian character ; and in Virgil, 
Horace, and Ovid, we find the lineaments of the Augustan 
age. But the value which thus attaches to their works is not 
to be confounded with the absolute value of those works as 
poems adapted through their intrinsic beauties to give delight 
at the present day. In estimating their naked worth, we 



must likewise separate from them the interest connected with 
their antiquity, and all those accidental associations that 
have been gathering round them for many centuries. We 
must even put out of view the native genius of the writer, if 
this genius have been exerted under circumstances so un- 
favourable as to render it ineffectual to produce what may 
give pleasure to a pure and highly-cultivated mind. Not- 
withstanding the traditionary enthusiasm that has existed on 
the subject, it may well be doubted whether their power of 
giving vivid pleasure merely as poetical compositions, forms 
a principal recommendation of the study of the ancient poets. 
They were not acquainted with the richest realms of mind. 
It is a mistake to address them as ' bards illustrious, born in 
happier da,ys.' But, to return to our immediate subject. 

" After the revival of letters, the forms of what was called 
Christianity, both among Catholics and Protestants, were in 
many respects so abhorrent to reason, or feeling, or both, 
that they could combine in no intimate union with our higher 
nature, however they might operate on men's passions or 
fears. Religious truth was, however, sometimes contem- 
plated in greater purity by minds of the better class ; and 
we early begin to find in poetry some expressions of 
true religious sentiment. But what advance had been 
actually made even in the seventeenth century, we may learn 
from the great work of Milton. It is based on a system of 
mythology more sublime than the Pagan, and less adapted to 
degrade the moral feelings, but scarcely less offensive to 
reason, and spreading all but a Manichsean gloom and blight 
over the creation of God. Putting forth his vast genius, he 
struggles with it as he can, moulding it into colossal forms 
that repel our human sympathies, and lavishing upon it 
gorgeous treasures of imagination ; but even his powers yield 
and sink at times before its intrinsic incongruity and essential 
falsehood. Whoever rightly apprehends the character of God, 
or contemplates as he ought the invisible world, will turn 
to but few pages of the Paradise Lost, with the hope of find- 
ing expressions correspondent to his thoughts and emotions. 
We feel with pain the inappreciable contrast between the 
genius displayed in the poetical execution of the work, and 
the absurdity of its prose story. It is the opposition which 
this story presents to the most ennobling truths, even more 
than ' the want of human interest,' on which Johnson 
remarks, that gives to the poem the unattractive character of 
which he speaks, and which we believe is felt by almost all 
its readers. 

" Doubtless pure religious sentiment breaks out in this and 
in the other poems of Milton. The concluding line of his Son- 
net on his Blindness — ■ 

* They also serve who only stand and wait,' 

and numerous other passages of similar beauty, have, we 
may believe, found an answering feeling in many hearts. 
But in speaking of those causes which have given a new 
character to the poetry of later times, it is not our purpose to 
trace their influence historically. Going back to the days of 
Grecian and Roman civilisation, we shall take only a few 
illustrations that may serve to show more clearly the contrast 
produced by their absence on one hand, or their operation on 
the other. 

" In proportion as we contemplate the world from the 
height to which true religion conducts us, we perceive the 
circle of moral action widening indefinitely. Our duties 
toward the inferior animals are few and low, compared with 
those which we lie under to our fellow-men ; and our duties 
toward our fellow-men become far more extensive, and 
assume a more solemn character, when we regard them not 



636 



APPENDIX. 



as born to perish upon earth, but as commencing here an 
unending existence. Our obligations to others correspond to 
our means of serving them; and we are introduced to a 
higher class of virtues, as soon as we recognise in those 
around us beings forming characters for a different mode of 
existence, to whom the highest service that can be rendered 
is to assist their progress in virtue, and to whom some 
influence, good or evil, is continually flowing out from us, 
and diverging into channels of which we cannot see the ter- 
mination. All interest in the spiritual and imperishable 
good of our fellow-men must depend upon our regarding them 
as spiritual and imperishable. It is only under a sense of 
our true nature, that man is capable of reaching the sublime 
thought of assimilating himself to God, by devoting his 
powers to the moral welfare of his fellow-men. 

* Yet, yet sustain me, Holiest ! — I am vow'd 

To solemn service high ; 
And shall the spirit, for thy tasks endow'd, 
Sink on the threshold of the sanctuary, 
Fainting heneath the burden of the day, 

Because no human tone 

Unto the altar-stone 
Of that pure spousal fane inviolate, 
Where it should make eternal truth its mate, 
May cheer the sacred solitary way ? 

* Oh ' be the whisper of thy voice within 
Enough to strengthen ! Be the hope to win 
A more deep-seeing homage for thy name 
Far, far beyond the burning dream of fame! 
Make me thine only ! Let me add but one 
To those refulgent steps all undefiled, 

Which glorious minds have piled 
Through bright self-offering, earnest, child-like, lone, 

For mounting to thy throne ; 

And let my soul, upborne 

On wings of inner morn, 
Find, in illumined secresy, the sense 
Of that blest work, its own high recompense.' 

" But there is more to be considered. The conduct which 
would be wise and right for man if immortal, would not be 
wise and right for him if viewed as a perishing animal. It is 
true that moral good is always good, and moral evil always 
evil ; but with an essential change in our nature and relations, 
there must likewise be an essential change in what is morally 
good or evil. If all human hopes were limited to this world, 
it would be folly for any one to act as if he and others were 
to exist for ever. The whole plan of life and of its duties 
formed by a wise man, would be quite different in the one case 
from what it would be in the other ; and the course of life 
actually pursued by the generality, if destitute of all religious 
belief, would be still more unlike that of men under its in- 
fluence. 

' Sapias, vina liques, et spatio brevi 
Spera longam reseces.'l 

' Quid brevi fortes jaculamur aevc 
Multa?'2 

* Lsetus in prsesens, animus quod ultra est 
Oderit curare, et amara lento 
Temperet risu.' 3 

In the absence of religious faith, this is true philosophy. If 
this life were the limit of our being, its pleasures and pains 
would be the only objects of our concern. Nothing would 

1 Be wise, pour out your wine, and contract your hope3 within life's 
narrow compass. 

2 Why, in so short a life, do we, in our bravery, aim at so much ? 

3 Joyous during the present hour, the mind should reject all care 



be virtuous which tended not to the attainment and com- 
munication of those limited and perishing pleasures we might 
here partake ; nothing morally evil, but what lessened our 
own capacity for enjoying them, or tended to prevent others 
from sharing them with us. There would be no sphere for 
the exercise of those powers, no abject for those capacities of 
happiness, that belong to the imperishable part of our nature. 
There would be nothing to prompt one to great sacrifices or 
acts of moral heroism ; for these have their source in the 
consciousness of immortality, in a sense of our connexion 
with the infinite, our look forward to good for ourselves and 
others beyond the limits of life. Earthly motives afford no 
soil in which the nobler virtues can strike their roots. It is 
true that the ancients, particularly the ancient philosophers, 
were not without the influence of truly religious conceptions; 
and, under almost any forms of opinion, the better nature of 
man will of itself occasionally break out into exhibitions of 
excellence. But the religious sentiment being so weak and 
perverted among the ancient poets, we find little in their 
works that can be regarded as morally noble, and scarcely 
an indistinct recognition of those deep feelings and unearthly 
virtues which have their source in our spiritual nature. The 
same remark is almost equally applicable to a large proportion 
of the modern poets : for true religion has been little under- 
stood or felt by them. Where, in any age preceding our own, 
may we hope to find such expressions of sentiment as in the 
following verses from Mrs Hemans' ' Vaudois Wife V 1 

' But calm thee ! Let the thought of death 

A solemn peace restore ; 
The voice that must be silent soon, 

Would speak to thee once more : 
That thou may'st bear its blessing on 

Through years of after life,— 
A token of consoling love, 

Even from this hour of strife. 

' I bless thee for the noble heart, 

The tender, and the true, 
Where mine hath found the happiest rest 

That e'er fond woman's knew ; 
I bless thee, faithful friend and guide ! 

For my own, my treasured share 
In the mournful secrets of thy soul, 

In thy sorrow, in thy prayer. 

' I bless thee for the last rich boon 

Won from affection tried — 
The right to gaze on death with thee, 

To perish by thy side ! 
And yet more for the glorious hope 

Even to these moments given — 
Did not thy spirit ever lift 

The trust of mine to heaven ? 

' Now be thou strong • Oh \ knew we not 

Our path must lead to this ? 
A shadow and a trembling still 

Were mingled with our bliss ! 
We plighted our young hearts when storms 

Were dark upon the sky, 
In full, deep knowledge of their task — 

To suffer and to die • 

' Be strong ! I leave the living voice 
Of this, my martyr'd blood, 
With the thousand echoes of the hills, 
With the torrent's foaming flood, — 

for what is beyond, and temper what is bitter with a gentle smile. 
4 ' The wife of a Vaudois leader, in one of the attacks made on the 
Protestant hamlets, received a mortal wound, and died in her hus- 
band's arms, exhorting him to courage and endurance.' 



CRITICISMS ON MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



637 



A spirit midst the caves to dwell, 

A token on the air, 
To rouse the valiant from repose, 

The fainting from despair. 

' Hear it, and bear thou on, my love ! 

Ay, joyously endure ! 
Our mountains must he altars yet, 

Inviolate and pure ; 
Where must our God be worshipped still 

With the worship of the free ; — 
Farewell ! there's but one pang in death, 

One only, — leaving thee >' 

"With this, may be compared the speech of Alcestis in 
Euripides, when dying in the presence of her husband, under 
circumstances adapted to call forth all that power of express- 
ing the tender emotions, for which Euripides has been thought 
to be distinguished. 

" Under the influence of religion, we are acted upon by 
new motives, through the sense created within us, of the 
worth of our fellow-men. Religion invests them with a new 
character, strips off the disguise with which the accidents of 
mortality, imperfections, weaknesses, follies, miseries, and 
crimes hide their essential nature from our view, and pre- 
sents them before us with all the interests and capacities of 
immortal beings. They who are dear to us are worthy of 
all love and self-devotion, worthy of affections unlimited by 
death or time. They are members with us of the imperish- 
able family of God, in whose company we are to exist for 
ever, and with whom our union will become more entire, as 
we grow purer and more disinterested. 

" Thus in later days there has been a growth of sentiments 
and affections, almost unknown before. Our better feelings 
toward our fellow-men have acquired far more strength, and 
assumed new forms. In other times, man has been com- 
paratively an insulated being. Domestic life — that life in 
which now almost all our joys or sorrows are centred — was 
scarcely known to the ancients ; and it has had but a sickly and 
artificial existence even in modern ages, through the opera- 
tion of false notions of domestic government and discipline, 
and of the mutual relations of husband and wife, parents and 
children. Religion, by teaching us justly to estimate what 
is truly excellent in our nature, what is intellectual, moral, 
and ever-enduring, has given to woman the rank to which 
she is entitled. It has made her the friend of man ; and our 
feelings are in harmony with the poet when he speaks of — 

' A perfect woman, nobly plann'd 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a spirit still and bright, 
With something of an angel light. 

But man has never regarded woman with respect and true 
love, except so far as he has regarded her as a spiritual and 
immortal being. Without this, no conception can exist of 
that inseparable union which blends all the interests and 
affections of one being with those of another. The poetry of 
the ancients that expresses any sentiments toward the female 
sex is, with rare exceptions, of the grossest kind, sensual, 
coarse, indecent, brutal. We can pick out only a few passages 
from the mass, which shadow forth anything like real affec- 
tion. The same character has continued to cleave to much of 
our modern poetry, rendering it at once pernicious and dis- 



1 " What Aristotle says," observes his able translator, Mr Twining, 
" is, I fear, but too conformable to the manner in which the ancients 
usually speak of the sex in general. At least he is certainly consistent 
with himself; witness the following very curious character of women 



gusting. But wherever the power of true .religion has been 
felt, there woman, more disinterested, more pure, and more 
moral than man, has exerted a constant influence to raise the 
character of society. Where it has not been felt, woman has 
been treated as a mere creature of this earth, an object only 
of sensual passion, courted, wronged, and insulted ; her char- 
acter has sunk, and the infection of the evil has spread itself 
every where. It would be difficult, in as few words, to sug- 
gest to a reflecting mind a more melancholy picture of the 
state of society at Athens, than that of which Aristotle affords 
us a glimpse in a short passage of his ' Art of Poetry,' where 
he remarks, with his usual brevity and dryness, that ' the man- 
ners (character) of a woman or slave may be good ; though in 
general, perhaps, women are rather bad than good, and slaves 
altogether bad.' 1 Where women are thus estimated, the 
domestic charities, our best school of virtue, cannot exist ; 
those affections which are at once the gentlest and the strongest 
have no place ; nor will there be any true refinement, nor 
quick and generous feeling in the intercourse between man 
and man : the first and strongest link in the chain of human 
sympathy is wanting. 

" When Jesus Christ pronounced these words, ' What God 
has joined together, let not man put asunder,' he laid down 
the fundamental law of human civilisation. But it would 
have been impossible to render marriage the most solemn and 
indissoluble of connexions if his religion had not at the same 
time restored to woman the character designed for her by 
nature, and raised her to that place she nowholds, wherever the 
truths he taught have had somewhat of their proper influence. 

" When the feelings that give sanctity to marriage are 
wanting, the parental affections operate but feebly. The new- 
born child, instead of being regarded as a gift and a trust 
from God, a new creature with whom we have become for ever 
connected, and a living bond of common interest to strengthen 
the union of its parents, is either looked at, on the one hand, 
as a present incumbrance, or, on the other, as a probable 
future support. The whole history of the domestic relations 
of the ancients establishes this truth. What must have been 
the state of parental affection among those who practised and 
tolerated the destruction of infants as a common custom ? 
The absence of such affection is not to be estimated by the 
number of victims to that custom, but by the fact of its being 
generally viewed without horror or reprobation. It was a 
shocking trait of barbarity in the character of the elder Cato, 
that he recommended that worn-out and disabled slaves 
should be exposed to perish ; but an exposure more inhuman, 
which showed that man had lost even the feelings of the lower 
animals, was constantly going on, and was enjoined, under 
certain circumstances, both by Plato and Aristotle, as a law 
of their imagined republics. There is a famous saying in one 
of the comedies of Terence, which has been often quoted as a 
fine expression of philanthropy : Homo sum — humani nihil a 
me alienum puto. 2 It is put into the mouth of a man whose 
wife is afterwards represented as in fear before him, because 
she had not destroyed her female infant as he had commanded, 
but given it a chance for preservation by causing it to be ex- 
posed alive. Maternal love cannot be wholly extinguished ; 
but it is the glow of modern feeling only which pours its beauty 
over the following lines, to which nothing parallel can be found 
in the poets of Greece or Rome, though Mrs Hemans apostro- 
phises the Elysium of their imagining : — 

in his ' History of Animals,' which I give the reader by no means for his 
assent, but for his wonder or his diversion." Mr Twining's remarks suffi- 
ciently imply of what nature this character is, and we forbear to quote it- 
2 I am a man ; whatever concerns other men, I think my concern. 



638 



APPENDIX. 



' Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier, 
Unlike a gift of nature to decay, 
Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, 
The child at rest before the mother lay, 

E'en so to pass away, 
With its bright smile. Elysium ! what wert thou 
To her who wept o'er that young slumberer's brow ? 

' Thou hadst no home, green land ! 
For the fair creature from her bosom gone, 
"With life's fresh flowers just opening in its hand, 
And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown, 

"Which in its clear eye shone 
Like spring's first wakening ! But that light was past ; 
Where went the dew-drop swept before the blast ? ' 



" The ancient popular faith was indeed destitute of con- 
solation ; but in the absence of those associations which shed 
a holy light round an infant, such consolation is less needed. 
Even the fountain of maternal affection flows with but a 
scanty and interrupted stream. 

" Thus religion, by making man of more worth to man, 
and by strengthening our assurance in each other's sympathy 
and virtue, has called forth affections which lay folded up in 
our nature, or had put forth only a stinted growth. The 
finer productions of modern poetry are coloured throughout 
with expressions of their beauty and strength. Moral quali- 
ties, good or bad, as they exist in men, unformed directly 
or indirectly by religion, owe their strength principally to 
impulse and passion, or depend, like the inconsistent hospi- 
tality of the Arab, or the pride of the Roman, on what he 
thought the glory of his country, upon prejudices which 
spring partly from generous feelings and partly from selfish 
regards, and are made strong and binding upon the indivi- 
dual by universal consent. It is only when quickened by 
religious sentiment, that the human character displays all its 
complicated variety of feelings. Then affections, which had 
before seemed almost powerless, become essential elements of 
our being. Associations, till then unknown, link together 
their invisible chains ; and the feeling with which they thrill 
us when touched, presents a new phenomonon in our nature. 
The love of our youthful home may seem to us an universal 
sentiment, likely to appear in the poetry of all times ; yet 
how little reference to it do we find in any poetry before 
our own age, and especially how little reference, like the 
following, to its moral power ! 

« " Hast thou come with the heart of thy childhood back, 
The free, the pure, the kind ?" 
— So murmur'd the trees in my homeward track, 
As they play'd to the mountain-wind. 

" Hath thy soul been true to its early love ?" 

Whisper'd my native streams ; 
** Hath the spirit, nursed amidst hill and grove, 

Still revered its first high dreams ?" ' etc. 

" It is under the continued influence of Christianity, how- 
ever imperfect that influence may have been, that the human 
character, which had before manifested itself partially and 
irregularly in the rudeness and inconsistency of its elementary 
passions, has begun to struggle toward its full development. 
It has become alive to feelings, and is putting forth powers, 
which belong to its immortal nature. We may perceive this 
unfolding of man in the very structure of language, which, 
enlarged as it has been with new terms, yet presents so imper- 
fect a means for expressing the different qualities and shades 
of character, and the modes and combinations of feeling. 
The study of human nature has thus become a science of far 
more interest and complexity. Many forms of character 



now appear, that belong to no period in the progress of the 
human race preceding that at which we have arrived. To 
the eye of the poet, man presents himself in new aspects of 
strength and weakness in multiform relations to the finite 
and the infinite, and with all the variety of sentiments result- 
ing from the change in his prospects and hopes. He is now 
' a traveller between life and death ; ' his highest interests 
connect him with the boundless, the unearthly, and the 
mysterious ; with all that has most power to affect the ima- 
gination, and excite the strongest and deepest feelings. It 
is only through his relations to God and eternity that man 
becomes an exhaustless subject of high poetry. When thus 
viewed, his ruined home may be repeopled with thoughts 
and images such as these : — 

'Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth, 

Deserted now by all ! 
Voices at eve here met in mirth, 

Which eve may ne'er recall. 
Youth's buoyant step, and woman's tone, 

And childhood's laughing glee, 
And song and prayer have all been known, 

Hearth of the dead ! to thee. 

' Thou hast heard blessings fondly pour'd 

Upon the infant head, 
As if in every fervent word 

The living soul were shed ; 
Thou hast seen partings, — such as bear 

The bloom from life away, — 
Alas ! for love in changeful air, 

Where naught beloved can stay !' etc. 

" The recognition of the higher relations of man has given 
a characteristic to modern poetry, particularly English poetry, 
through which it has peculiar power over the heart. Expres- 
sions and descriptions of human suffering, instead of depress- 
ing us with melancholy, become sublime or touching, when 
that suffering is brought into direct or indirect contrast with 
man's nature and hopes as an immortal being, or is repre- 
sented as calling into exercise those virtues which can exist 
in such a being alone. There is no pathos in the mere lamen- 
tations of an individual over his own particular lot, or over 
the condition of a race to which he feels it an unhappiness to 
belong. There is nothing that excites any tender or elevating 
feeling in such verses as the following from an ancient poet : — 

' Is there a man just, honest, nobly born ? 
Malice shall hunt him down. Does wealth attend him ? 
Trouble is heard behind. Conscience direct ? 

Beggary is at his heels 

Account that day 

"Which brings no new mischance, a day of rest. 
For what is man ? What matter is he made of ? 
How born ? What is he, and what shall he be ? 
"What an unnatural parent is this world, 
To foster none but villains, and destroy 
All who are benefactors to mankind !' 

" The sufferings to which we are here exposed cease to be 
a subject that leads to any grateful or ennobling state of 
mind, when man regards the pleasures of this life as his 
only good. Among the ancient poets, the contemplation 
of its evils, when viewed at a distance, is associated with 
sentiments simply disheartening, or altogether superficial and 
trifling. Let us take for example a famous ode of Horace. 
It begins : — 

' Eheu ! fugaces, Postume, Postume, 
Labuntur anni ; nee pietas moram 
Rugis et instanti senecta? 
Afferet, indomitseque morti.' 



CEITICISMS ON MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



639 



" It ends :— 

' Absumet haeres Csecuba dignior, 
Servata centum clavibus ; et mero 
Tinget pavimentum superbo 
Pontificum potiore ccenis. ' 

" No modern poet would, or rather could, construct verses 
after this fashion. 

" It is in representations of the triumph of our immortal 
nature over the ills of mortality, of the patience with which 
they are borne, of the power by which they are overcome — in 
one word, of the moral qualities which suffering alone brings 
into action, and in those touches that awaken our best and 
tenderest affections for the sufferings of others, especially the 
innocent and helpless, that the sources of the highest pathos 
are to be found. All that is morally sublime springs upward 
from our severer trials; and then, only -when man feels the 
nobleness of his nature. Present the calamity nakedly to 
our view, and its contemplation is merely distressing ; picture 
it in connexion with some effort of virtue, and a glory is 
spread over the whole. In the Fall of D'Assas by Mrs Hemans, 
(not one of the most remarkable of her productions.) a young 
officer, full of the thoughts of his home and the scenes of his 
earlier years, is represented as surprised and massacred by 
his enemies. The simple narrative of such a death naturally 
excites painful emotion, but this emotion is so wholly over- 
borne, as but to give additional strength to the exaltation of 
feeling produced by the concluding verses : — 

' " Silence !" in under-tones they cry,' etc. 

' ' We may compare the poem just quoted with a passage 
from Virgil, which refers to circumstances somewhat similar, 
and has been praised as very pathetic, in the episode of 
Nisus and Euryalus, where Nisus perceives that Euryalus 
has fallen into the hands of his foes, and is just about to be 
slain. 

' Turn vero, exterritus, amens, 
Conclamat Nisus : nee se celare tenebris 
Amplius, aut tantum potuit perferre dolorem : 
"Me, me, adsum qui feci, in me convertite ferrum, 
O Rutuli ! mea fraus omnis ; nihil iste nee ausus, 
Nee potuit ; caelum hoe et conseia sidera testor." 
Tantum infelicem nimium dilexit amieum. 
Talia dicta dabat ; sed viribus ensis adactus 
Transabiit costas.' 

" However conspicuous such a passage may be in an ancient 
poet, it would not, we believe, be regarded with great admira- 
tion in a modern. 

" In one of Miss Edgeworth's little stories for children, 
which are far better worth reading than most books for grown 
people, she says of the cottage of some poor woman that it 
was as clean as misery could make it. There is a pathos in 
these few words, not unusual in her writings, but such as we 
can find in but a scanty number of writers before our own 
age. It has not been well understood, that the indirect ex- 
pressions of suffering are far more powerful than the direct, 
and that we are much more affected by suppressed, than by 
unrestrained emotion. In but little of the poetry of past 
times is there any trace of quickness or delicacy of perception 
in regard to the modes or expressions of human feeling and 
passion ; for man himself had not become sufficiently refined 
for the exercise of such observation. Plato objects to Homer, 
and the tragic poets of Greece, that they degraded men's 
minds by representing their heroes, when suffering, as pouring 
forth long lamentations, singing their sorrows, and beating 
their breasts. So far as they did so, there was nothing pathetic 
in their writings. Who, indeed, in modern times, was ever 
able to imagine himself affected by the sorrows of Achilles 



for the death of Patroclus, or those of his mother, Thetis, in 
consequence ? 

" From the want of sentiment and of moral associations, 
the descriptive language of the ancient poets is, in general, 
scanty and poor. It is for the most part drawn immediately 
from the perceptions of the senses, and has little to do with 
the invisible feelings and images, of which outward things 
become the symbols to a reflecting mind. It rarely gives them 
a moral being; its epithets are seldom imaginative ; it paints 
to the eye ; it calls up recollections of bodily rest and pleasure; 
but it does not often address the heart. 

" Horace begins one of his odes thus : — 

' Vides, ut ulta stet nive candidum 
Soracte ; nee jam sustineant onus 
Sylvse laborantes, geluque 
Flumina constiterint acuto ?' 

" The epithets white mountain, deep snow, sharp frost, are 
are all taken without addition immediately from the percep- 
tion of the senses ; nor, considering the common prosaic use 
of laboro, in a similar sense, is the epithet labouring much 
more poetical ; yet the passage is as striking of its kind as 
most that may be found in Latin poetry. The lines are thus 
rendered by Dry den, — 

' Behold yon mountain's hoary height 
Made higher with new mounts of snow; 

Again behold the winter's weight 
Oppress the labouring woods below ; 

And streams, with icy fetters bound, 

Benumb'd and cramp 'd to solid ground. 

" Dryden was not eminent for his love of nature, or power 
of describing its beauties ; and a poet of livelier perceptions 
would hardly have changed the name of Soracte for the faint 
generalisation, ' yon mountain ;' yet something of the diffe- 
rence which we wish to point out between ancient and modern 
poetry is here perceptible. Let us take from Mrs Hemans an 
example of the richly imaginative character of that of later 
times. We will give the beginning of the verses in which she 
describes herself as reading, in an arbour, ' The Talisman ' of 
Scott. A particular interest attaches to them from the cir- 
cumstance that, in the best portrait of her, she is represented 
in this real or imaginary situation. 

' There were thick leaves above me and around,' etc. 

" Every subject becomes rich in proportion to the wealth 
of the mind by which it is contemplated. The intellectual 
light that shines upon it gives it its colours. Deficient as the 
ancient poets were in so many sources of thought and feeling 
that exist in modern times, they discover as imperfect a sen- 
sibility to most of the other pleasures of a refined taste, as to 
those derived from the objects of nature. There is to be found, 
for instance, in their works, scarcely a single passage, perhaps 
not one, in which the power of music, as blending in intimate 
union sensible and intellectual pleasures, is described with 
strong expression ; yet what a treasury of glowing images and 
solemn thoughts this subject has opened to modern poets. 
We need not quote for illustration Mrs Hemans's ' Trium- 
phant Music' 

" Through our strong sympathy with our fellow-men, we 
are deeply interested in the remains of antiquity, in the ruins 
that recall it to our thoughts, and in the histories which have 
come down to us — or rather in those histories as fashioned 
anew by our imagination, effacing and softening, filling up 
the rude outline, and colouring and embellishing at pleasure. 
In proportion as we have a more vivid conception of the 
virtues and excellences of which man is capable, so man, as 



640 



APPENDIX. 



such, becomes more an object of our regard. In looking back 
through the obscurity of time, the depravity that would have 
shocked us, if forced upon our observation, is partially lost 
in the darkness, and the bright traits of character shine out 
more distinctly. The dead of past ages are regarded with 
something of the same tenderness that we feel toward the 
dead whom we have known : at least we consent for a time 
to sacrifice our philosophy to an illusion, and, instead of the 
Richard Cceur-de-Lion of history, whose only marked cha- 
racteristics were bodily strength and brutal hardihood, with 
those few gleams of goodness which nothing but the grossest 
sensuality can utterly extinguish, we consent for a time to 
take the Richard of Scott's Ivanhoe ; or, in fancying the 
Augustan age, are willing to forget that it took its name from 
' him who murder'd Tully, 
That cold villain, Octavius.' 

" Conformably to the laws of our better nature, our imagi- 
nation is most readily attracted by what is most excellent in 
man. While viewing a beautiful tract of country with which 
we are not familiar, we can hardly refrain from idealising its 
supposed inhabitants, and giving them somewhat of a poetical 
character, or, in other words, a character agreeable to our 
best feelings. So it is in casting our view over past ages. 
Our sympathies are excited for the hopes, and fears, and the 
virtues, such as they were, of those who have lost all power 
to injure ; and we may even fashion dim images of what they 
now are, as existing somewhere in the creation of God, 
divested, perhaps, of the evil that clung to them on earth. 
The idea of that moral purification and development, which, 
we believe, is continually going on in the universe, may thus 
mingle with the contemplation of the past. It is in trans- 
ferring us into a world in which grateful imaginations are 
blended with truth, and the harshness of present reality is 
shut out, that tbe poetic interest of antiquity principally 
consists. 

"Of this, modern poetry and fiction have abundantly 
availed themselves. But though a shadowy antiquity lay as 
a background to Greek and Roman civilisation, yet it was 
rarely resorted to by the ancient poets as a source of pleasing 
or solemn emotions. To them the remoter ages were little 
more than a desert abounding with monstrous fictions, with 
licentious and savage divinities, half-brutal demigods, and 
heroes, and chiefs hardly human, whose fabulous deeds and 
sufferings present nothing to recommend them to our sense 
of beauty. In the period following, history assumed at least 
an air of truth, and men appeared on the stage with human 
feelings, passions, and virtues. But, in looking back upon 
their earlier history, the ancients seem to have felt but slightly 
those peculiar sentiments and trains of feeling, which the 
contemplation of antiquity now awakens in our breasts. In 
no ancient poet is there a celebration of a hero of his country 
to be compared with Mrs Hemans' lines on the Scottish 
patriot, Wallace, beginning 

' Best with the brave, whose names belong 
To the high sanctity of song.' 

There is no appeal to the deeds of their fathers equal to her 
Spanish war-song — 

'Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again ; 
Let the high word " Castile " go resounding through Spain.' 

No poetic conception of antiquity is to be found resembling 
the introduction of her ' Cathedral Hymn'— 

• ' A dim and mighty minster of old time, 

A temple, shadowy with remembrances 
Of the majestic past ! ' 



And above all, there is nothing so morally ennobling, so 
adapted to raise the character of a people, as the verses by 
which she has conferred a great obligation on our country — 
her ' Pilgrim Fathers.' 

" But, beside the advantages afforded to a modern poet by 
the religious and moral improvement of our race, which it 
has been principally our object to point out, there are others 
at which we may glance. He may look back over many 
ages, and around upon all countries, and acquaint himself 
with man, as he has existed and exists under circumstances 
the most dissimilar. He may possess himself of all that 
knowledge of human nature, which has been gathered from 
long experience, and wide observation, and multiplied oppor- 
tunities of comparison. He may, like Southey, construct 
poems, as wild and wondrous, and as morally beautiful, as 
' Thalaba,' or as rich with barbaric splendour as ' The Curse 
of Kehama,' from the rude materials of Arabian fiction or 
Hindoo mythology. The treasures of learning and science, 
so poor in ancient times, have, through succeeding ages, 
been accumulating to furnish him with thoughts, illustrations, 
and images. Our conceptions are enlarged, our views raised, 
the physical as well as the moral 1 universe has been con- 
tinually opening to the view of man, and knowledge unfold- 
ing her ever-lengthening scroll, of which the ancients had 
scarcely read the first lines. It was a dream, ridiculed by 
Plato, 1 of the extravagant admirers of Homer, that all human 
and divine learning was to be found in his writings. 

" In the nature of things, art is progressive ; its theory and 
practice are gradually better understood, errors are discovered 
and corrected, new objects of attainment proposed, and 
visions of higher excellence revealed to the mind ; and thus 
we may believe, that the character, principles, purposes, and 
means of poetry are now comprehended more justly than 
they were in former times. 

" But it may be said that, in perfection of language at 
least, the poets of Greece and Rome must remain unsur- 
passed. It may be doubted, however, whether we are 
qualified to pronounce this judgment in their favour. The 
harmonious flow of articulate sounds in the Greek and Latin 
languages, particularly in the Latin, is not to be readily 
attained in some of the principal languages of literary 
Europe. But if we speak of poetical beauty of expression 
and harmony of thought, we must recollect that it is neces- 
sary to be acquainted with the train of shadowy associations 
which follow the direct meaning of a poetical word, before we 
can determine that word to be well chosen. But such 
acquaintance implies an intimate knowledge of the use of 
language and of the state of mind in those addressed, which, 
as regards the poetry of the ancients, it is very difficult to 
acquire, and, in many particulars, impossible, yet without 
which we are liable to fall into great mistakes, and may often 
be left in much uncertainty. Take, for example, the line — 

' Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum.' 

It has been admired from the consonance of the sound with 
the sense. We understand the epithet putris to mean dusty, 
the dusty plain ; but this epithet is elsewhere applied to a 
rich, mellow soil, easily broken up, or to a sandy plain. Ac- 
cording to either of these uses, it is apparently an epithet 
unsuitable, from its associations, to be given to a field described 
as shaken and resounding with the trampling of a body of 
horse. As respects, likewise, the epithet quadrupedans, we 
may doubt whether any modern critic can explain why qua- 
drupedante sonitu is more poetical in Virgil than its equiva- 

1 " De Republica," lib. x. p. 598, seq. 



CEITICISMS ON MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



641 



lent, ' the sound of quadrupeds,' would be in a modern poet, 
if used to express the sound of horses. 
" Let us take another example : 

' Pastor cum traheret per freta navibus 
Idaeis Helenam perfldus hospitam.' 

Why is the word traheret used, which, as employed else- 
where, would imply the taking away of Helen against her 
will ? Does it refer to one version of the story according to 
which Paris did bear her away by force? Were this the 
case, one would naturally expect, considering the reproach- 
ful and denunciatory character of the ode, to find that idea 
brought out more distinctly. Is it intended to express the 
reluctance with which, though yielding to her love for Paris, 
she left her husband and her home ? This conception is too 
refined for an ancient poet to trust to its being made apparent 
by so light a touch, if indeed we may suppose it to have 
entered his mind. Was traheret then intended, by its associ- 
ations with an act of violence, to denote the rapidity and fear 
of the flight of Paris ? or was it merely employed abusively, 
to use a technical term — only with reference to a part of its 
signification, as words are not unfrequently used in poetry, 
though it is always an imperfection ? 

"Such cases are very numerous, in which no modern 
reader can pronounce with just confidence upon the character 
of the poetical language of the ancients. Instances are fre- 
quently occurring in which, if we admire at all, we must 
admire at second-hand, upon trust. The meaning and effect 
of words have undergone changes which it is often not easy, 
and often not possible, to ascertain with precision. Even in 
our own language this is the case. Shakspeare says — 

' Nor Heaven peep through the blanket of the dark 
To cry, Hold ! Hold i ' 

" Here Johnson understands him as presenting the ludi- 
crous conception of ' the ministers of vengeance peeping 
through a blanket ;' and Coleridge, as we see by his Table- 
Talk, conjectured that instead of ' blanket,' ' blank height ' 
was perhaps written by Shakspeare. But by ' Heaven ' we 
conceive to be meant not the ministers of vengeance, but the 
lights of heaven ; and it is not unpoetical to speak of the 
moon and stars as peeping through clouds. With the word 
* blanket,' our associations are trivial and low ; but under- 
stand it merely as denoting a thick covering of darkness which 



closely enwraps the lights of heaven, and it suits well to its 
place. But our associations with the word are accidental: there 
is nothing intrinsically more mean in a blanket than a sheet, 
yet none would object to the expression of ' a sheet of light.' 
The fortunes of the words only have been different, and that, 
in all probability, since the time of Shakspeare, considering 
his use of this word, and the corresponding use of the word 
rug by Drayton. 1 

" If such be the character of poetical language, it is clear 
that, to judge with critical accuracy of that of a distant age 
or even a foreign land, requires uncommon knowledge and 
discrimination, as well as an accurate taste ; while unfortu- 
nately, profound scholarship and cultivated and elegant habits 
of mind have very rarely been united in the study of the 
ancient poets. The supposition of a peculiar felicity of ex- 
pression in their writings is to be judged of, in most cases, 
rather by extrinsic probabilities, which do not favour it, than 
by any direct and clear evidence of it that can be produced. 
We are very liable in this particular to be biassed by prepos- 
session and authority ; our imaginations often deceive us ; 
we create the beauty which we fancy that we find. 

" There is perhaps no poet, in whose productions the char- 
acteristics of which we have spoken as giving a superiority to 
the poetry of later times over that which has preceded, ap- 
pear more strikingly than in those of Mrs Hemans. When, 
after reading such works as she has written, we turn over the 
volumes of a collection of English poetry, like that of Chal- 
mers, we cannot but perceive that the greater part of it 
appears more worthless and distasteful than before. Much is 
evidently the work of barren and unformed, vulgar and vicious 
minds, of individuals without any conception of poetry as the 
glowing expression of what is most noble in our nature, and 
often with no title to the name of poet, but from having put 
into metre thoughts too mean for prose. Such writings as 
those of Mrs Hemans at once afford evidence of the advance 
of our race, and are among the most important means of its 
further purification and progress. The minds, which go forth 
from their privacy to act with strong moral power upon thou- 
sands and ten thousands of other minds, are the real agents 
in advancing the character of man, and improving his con- 
dition. They are instruments of the invisible operations of 
the Spirit of God."— Christian Examiner, Jan. 1836. 

1 See examples, in the notes to Shakspeare. 





INDEX 




Aaron's Rod, 495 


Bentivoglio, sonnet from, 50 


Chaulieu, translation from, 52 


Abbotsford, farewell to, 508 


Bernardo del Carpio, 456 


Chieftain's son, the, 245 


Abencerrage, the, 67 


Bethany, the sisters of, 599 


Child and dove, the, 357 


Aber church, sonnet on, 603 


Better land, the, 479 


— dirge of a, 54 


Address to the Deity, 1 


" Bird that art singing," 540 


— of the forests, the, 359 


Adopted child, the," 423 


— at sea, the, 556 


— reading the Bible, the, 583 


Affection, prayer of, 596 


Bird's release, the, 338 


• — to a, on his birthday, 355 


Aged friend, to an, 620 


Birds, the, 531 


Child's first grief, the, 502 


Aged Indian, the, 56 


— of passage, 434 


— last sleep, the, 431 


" Ah cease ! " from Metastasio, 49 


— of the air, the, 602 


— morningandeveninghymns,532 


Alaric in Italy, 95 


Blackwood's Magazine, 42, 66 


— return from the woodlands, the, 


Album at Rosanna, lines written for 


Blondel the Troubadour, 101 


506 


the, 510 


Blue Anemone, to the, 610 


Children whom Jesus blessed, the, 601 


— of Miss F. A. L., lines written in 


Books and flowers, 504 


Chorley, Mr, criticisms by, 292, 337, 


the, 295 


Boon of memory, the, 382 


445, 466, 517, 632 


Alcestis, death-song of, 502 


Bowl of liberty, the, 242 


Christ, on a remembered picture of, 601 


— of Alrieri, the, 121 


Brandenburg harvest-song, from La 


— bearing his cross, on a picture 


Alfieri, the Alcestis of. 121 


Motte Fouque\ 348 


of, 607 


Alhambra, the, 79 notes 


Breathings of spring, 432 


— ■ Infant, with flowers, picture of 


Alp-horn song, 294 


Breeze from shore, the, 378 


the, 601 


Alpine horn, the, 545 


Bridal-day, the, 466 


— • stilling the tempest, 355 


Alps, league of the, 234 


Bride of the Greek isle, the, 388 


Christian Examiner, the, 336 


— the shepherd-poet of the, 512 


Brigand leader and his wife, the, 506 


Christmas carol, 14 


American forest girl, the, 406 


" Brightly hast thou fled," 562 


— — 437 


" Amidst the bitter tears," from 


" Bring flowers," 362 


Church, old, in an English park, 603 


Camoens, 46 


Broken chain, the, 491 


— in North Wales, a, 603 


Ancestral song, the, 467 


— flower, the, 505 


Cicero, death of, 89 note 


Ancient battle-song, 539 


— lute, the, 515 


Cid, songs of the, 238 


— Greek chant of victory, 536 


Brother and sister in the country, to 


Cid's deathbed, the, 238 


— — song of exile, 349 


my, 2 


— departure into exile, the, 238 


And I too in Arcadia, 541 


Brother's dirge, the, 545 


— funeral procession, the, 239 


Anemone, the blue, to, 610 


Bruce at the source of the Nile, 368 


— rising, the, 241 


Angel visits, 354 


Burial in the desert, the, 516 


Clanronald, death of, 58 


Angel's greeting, the, 499 


— of an emigrant's child in the 


Cleopatra and Anthony, last banquet 


Angler, the, 489 


forest, the, 579 


of, 93 


Annunciation, the, 598 


— of William the Conqueror, the, 537 


Cliffs of Dover, the, 376 


Anthony and Cleopatra, last banquet 


Butler, William Archer, 293 note 


Clwyd river, the, 618 


of, 93 


Butterfly resting on a skull, lines to a, 


Cceur-de-Lion at the bier of his father, 


Antique Greek lament, 627 


491 


346 


— sepulchre, the, 493 


" By a mountain-stream at rest," 566 


Coleridge's epitaph, on reading, 623 


Arabella Stuart, 385 




" Come away," 560 


Arnold de Brescia, 86 note 


Caius Gracchus of Monti, translations 


" — home," 465 


Ascending a hill leading to a convent, 


from the, 133 


" — to me, dreams of heaven," 564 


on, 49 


Call to battle, the, 547 


" — — gentle sleep," 567 


Asdrubal, the wife of, 97 


Cambrian in America, the, 148 


" Common sense," the satire of, 66 


Assas, the fall of, 537 


Camoens, translations from, 43 


Communings with thought, 607 


Attendant, to his, from Horace, 298 


Camoens' Lusiad, translation from, 297 


Conqueror's sleep, the, 365 


Autumn of 1834, records of the, 622 


Captivity, songs of, 545 


Conradin, the death of, 103 




Caravan in the desert, the, 210 


Constantine, the last, 221 


Baillie, Joanna, 187 


Carolan's prophecy, 414 


Contadina, the, 361 


Bandusia, to the fountain of, from 


Caroline, to, 524 


Conversation, memorial of a, 622 


Horace, 299 


Carpio, Bernardo del, 456 


Conway, residence at, 19 


Barb, jeu-d'esprit on the word, 139 


Carthage, Marius among the ruins of, 


Corinne at the Capitol, 469 


Bards, chant of the, 151 


212 


Coronation of Inez de Castro, the, 448 


— meeting of the, 246 


Casabianca, 369 


Costanza, 407 • 


Barton , Bernard, to the daughter of, 485 


Castri, the view from, 251 


Cottage girl, the, 604 


Basvigliana of Monti, the, 118 


Caswallon's triumph, 150 


Covent Garden, the Vespers of Palermo 


Battle, the call to, 547 


Cathedral hymn, 574 


at, 186 


Battle of Maclodio, the, an ode, 128 


Cavern of the three Tells, the, 341 


Crescentius, the widow of, 85 


Battlefield, the, 605 


Chamois hunter's love, the, 450 


Cross in the wilderness, the, 371 


Bed of heath, the, 562 


Chant of the bards before their mas- 


— of the South, the, 294 


Beings of the mind, the, 477 


sacre, 151 


Crusader's return, the, 363 


Bell at sea, the, 492 


Charlotte, the princess, stanzas on the 


— war-song, the, 58 


Belshazzar's feast, 219 


death of, 59 


Curfew-song of England, the, 553 


Bembo, translation from 51 


Charmed picture, the, 458 




Bended bow, the, 345 


Chatillon, de, a tragedy, 300 


Daily paths, our, 370 





INDEX. 


643 


Dalecarlian mine, scene in a, 357 


Evening song of the Tyrolese peasants, 


Greek lament, 627 


Dargle, on a scene in the, 623 


494 


— parting song, 351 


Darkness of the crucifixion, the, 602 


— — — weary, 592 


— song of exile, 349 


Dartmoor, 141 


— star, to the, 560 


— songs, 241 


Datura Arborea, on the, 623 


Exile's dirge, the, 457 


Green isles of ocean, the, 146 


Daughter of Bernard Barton, to the, 485 


Eye, to the, 59 


Grufydd's feast, 148 


Day of flowers, the, 592 




Griitli, on a flower from, 244 


Death and the warrior, 490 


Fair Helen of Kirkconnel, 561 


Guadalete, battle of, 77 note 


— the welcome to, 509 


— Isle, the, 152 


Guardian spirit, songs of a, 538 


— of Clanronald, the, 58 


Fairies' recall, the, 565 


Guerilla leader's vow, the, 454 


— of Conradin, the, 103 


Fairy favours, 439 


— song, 56 


— of the Princess Charlotte, on the, 


— song, 562 




59 


Faith of love, the, 507 


Hall of Cynddylan, the, 147 


Death-day of Korner, the, 425 


Fall of d'Assas, the, 537 


Happy hour, a, 621 


Death-song of Alcestis, the, 502 


Fallen lime-tree, the, 555 


Harp of Wales, the, 145 


De Chatillon, or the Crusaders, 300 


Family Bible, to a, 600 


Haunted ground, 358 


Deity, address to the, 1 


Far away, 558 


— house, the, 511 


Delius, to, from Horace, 299 


— o'er the sea, 546 


" He never smiled again," 346 


Delia Casa, sonnet from, 50 


Farewell to Abbotsford, 508 


" He shall not dread," 48 


Delos, song of, 535 


— the dead, 353 


" He walk'd with God," 495 


Delphi, the storm of, 241 


— Wales, 499 


Heart of Bruce in Melrose Abbey, the, 


Delta, criticisms by, 315, 630 


Fata Morgana, the, 38 


476 


Departed, the, 430 


Father reading the Bible, a, 437 


Hebe of Canova, on the, 53 


— spirit, to a, 449 


Fathers' songs, our, 366 


Heber, bishop, 118, note 


Desert, the burial in the, 516 


Faunus, to, from Horace, 299 


— i to the memory of, 423 


— flower, the, 524 


Fawsley park, sonnet on a church in, 


Hebrew mother, the, 372 


Deserted house, the, 463 


603 


Helen of Kirkconnel, 561 


Design and performance, 623 


Festal hour, the, 252 


Heliodorus in the temple, 98 


Despondency and aspiration, 624 


Fever-dream, the, 139 


Hermitage on the sea-shore, lines writ- 


Dial of flowers, the, 369 


Fidelity till death, 394 


ten in a, 54 


Dirge, " Calm on the bosom," 357 


Fiesco, prologue to the tragedy of, 520 


Hero's death, the, 59 


— " Weep for the early lost," 298 


Filicaja, sonnets from, 49, 138 


Herrera, ode from, 254 


■ — " Where shall we make," 549 


Flight of the spirit, the, 628 


Highland chief in Waverley, dirge of 


— at sea, 559 


Flower, the shadow of a, 491 


the, 57 


— of a child, 54 


— from the field of Griitli, on a, 244 


Hirlas horn, the, 146 


— of the Highland chief in Waver- 


— of the desert, the, 524 


Hogg, James, 63 note 


ley, 57 


Flowers, 628 


Holy Family, repose of a, 600 


Distant scene, to a, 619 


— and music in a room of sick- 


Home of love, the, 503 


— ship, the, 434 


ness, 572 


Homes of England, the, 412 


— sound of the sea, on the, 618 


— day of, 592 


Hope, the song of, 546 


Diver, the, 481 


— dial of, 369 


Horace, translations from, 298 


Domestic affections, the, 15 


Foliage, 621 


Hour of death, the, 375 


Dover cliffs, 376 


Forest sanctuary, the, 316 


— prayer, 377 


Dramatic scene between Bronwylfa and 


Forsaken hearth, the, 380 


■ — romance, an, 427 


Rhyllon, 383 


" Fortune, why thus," from Metastasio, 


" How can that love," 565 


Dreamer, the, 380 


48 


" How strange a fate," 45 


Dreaming child, the, 458 


Fourteenth century, a tale of the, 213 


Howel's song, 150 


Dreams of heaven, 518 


Fountain of Bandusia, to the, 299 


Huguenot's farewell, the, 626 


— the dead, 624 


— Marah, the, 496 


Humboldt on the Southern cross, 332 


Druid chorus, &c, 145 


— f Oblivion, the, 465 


note 


Dying bard's prophecy, the, 152 


Fouque, Brandenburg harvest-song, 


Hymn by the sick-bed of a mother, 486 


— girl and flowers, 556 


from, 348 


— of the traveller's household on 


— Improvisatore, the, 379 


Fragment, ' ' Rest on your battle-fields, " 


his return, 594 




245 


— of the Vaudois mountaineers, 


East, attraction of the, 620 


Freed bird, the, 521 


588 


Easter-day in a mountain-churchyard, 


Friend, to an aged, 620 


Hymns for childhood, 528 


581 


Funeral-day of Sir Walter Scott, the, 585 




Echo song, 551 


— genius, the, 250 


" I dream of all things free," 546 


Eclectic review, 633 


— hymn, 581 


" I go, sweet friends," 354 


Eclogue from Camoens, 44 


Future, a thought of the, 498 


" I would we had not met again," 565 


Edinburgh Monthly Magazine, 106, 107, 




" If thou hast crush'd a flower," 562 


253, 292 


Gafran's sea-song, 146 


" If thus thy fallen grandeur," 49 


— — Review, 43, 66, 106, 


Garcilaso de la Vega, "Divine Eliza," 


" If to the sighing breeze," 51 


113 


from, 296 


11 Conte di Carmagnola, the, 125 


— ■ Review, 440 


Gargano, mount, 90 


Illuminated city, the, 432 


Edith, 396 


Genius singing to love, 554 


Image in lava, the, 436 


Edwards, Mr, lines to, 19 


Genoa, night-scene in, 99 


— in the heart, the, 461 


Effigies, the, 428 


George III., stanzas to the memory of, 


Imelda, 394 


Eldest brother, to my, 12 


187 


Impromptu to Miss F. A. L., 499 


Elgin marbles, the, 41 


German literature, 426 


" In tears the heart," 47 


Ellis, Sir Henry, to the memory of, 56 


— soldiers' Rhine song, 534 


Indian, the aged, 56 


Elysium, 249 


— song, 52 


— with his dead child, the, 450 


Emigrant's child, burial of a, 579 


Gertrude, 394 


— city, the, 398 


Emigration, song of, 451 


Gesner, morning song from, 52 


— woman's death-song, 402 


England, the name of, 567 


Gifford, Mr, 106 


Indian's revenge, 590 


— and Spain, 4 


Giulio Regondi, to, 520 


Inez de Castro, coronation of, 448 


England's dead, 246 


Goethe, Mignon's song from, 547 


Infant Christ with flowers, picture of 


English boy, the, 609 


Goethe's Iphigenia, scenes from, 616 


the, 601 


— martyrs, the, 568 


— Tasso — — 611 


Intellectual powers, 627 


— soldiers' song of memory, 358 


Good-night, 564 


Invocation, " And come ye faithful," 


" Enjoy the sweets," 52 


Granada, conquest of, 76, 77, notes 


597 


Epitaph, " Farewell, beloved," 520 


Grasmere, a remembrance of, 619 


— "Answer me," 424 


— on Mr W., 20 


Grave of a poetess, the, 411 


— "As the tired voyager," 


— on his hammer, 20 


Graves of a household, the, 435 


597 


— over two brothers, 356 


— martyrs, 376 


— " Hush 'd is the world," 55 


Eryri Wen, 151 


Greece, modern, 28 


— " Oh, art thou still," 546 


Evening among the Alps, 57 


Greek chant of victory, 536 


Iphigenia of Goethe, scenes from the, 


— prayer at a girls' school, 374 


— funeral chant, 349 


616 



614 



INDEX. 



' ' Is there some spirit, 566 

Isle of founts, the, 344 

" Italia, O Italia," 49 

Italian girl's hymn to the virgin, 449 

— literature,translations, &c. from, 

118 

— poets, patriotic effusions from, 

137 
Italy, Alaricin, 95 

— restoration of the works of art to, 

22 
Ivan the Czar, 413 
Ivy song, 354 
— 557 
Jeffrey, lord, 337, 440 
Jeu-d'esprit on the word " barb," 139 
Jewsbury, Miss, 53, 422 
Joan of Arc in Rheims, 403 
Juan de Tarsis, sonnet from, 50 
Juana, 405 
Juvenile poems, 1 

Kaiser's feast, the, 419 

Kamsin, the, 6*9 note 

Keene, a, 558 

Kindred hearts, 367 

King of Arragon's lament for his brother, 

the, 452 
Korner and his sister, 424 

— the death-day of, 425 

Lady of Provence, the, 446 

— of the castle, the, 416 
Lament of an Irish mother, the, 558 

— of Llywarch Hen, the, 147 
Land of dreams, the, 462 

Landing of the pilgrim fathers in New 

England, the, 429 
Landon, Miss, 631 
Langhans, Madame, tomb of, 457 
Last banquet of Anthony and Cleo- 
patra, the, 93 

— Constantine, the, 221 

— rites, 372 

— song of Sappho, 549 

— tree of the forest, 473 

— wish, 438 

— words of the last wasp, 523 
Lawrence, Mrs, 505 note 

Lays of many lands, 338 

Leaf from Virgil's tomb, on a, 245 

League of the Alps, the, 234 

" Leave me not yet," 543 

" Let her depart," 564 

" Let the vain courtier," 49 

" Let us depart," 606 

Life, the prayer for, 509 

Lights and shades, 501 

Lilies of the field, the, 601 

Lines on Elizabeth Smith, 12 

Literary Magnet, the, 248, 373 notes 

Lonely bird, the, 559 

" Look on me thus no more," 563 

" Look on me with thy cloudless eyes," 

561 
Lope de Vega, translations from, 49 
Lorenzini, sonnet from, 51 
Lorenzo de Medici, translation from, 53 
Lost Pleiad, the, 375 
Love, the faith of, 507 

— the home of, 503 
Lyre and flower, the, 559 
Lyre's lament, the, 478 
Lyrics and songs for music, 534 

Maclodio, the battle of, 128 

Madeline, 408 

Madoc's farewell, 149 

Madonna, to a picture of the, 517 

Maggi, sonnet from, 138 

Magic glass, the, 468 

Manuel, translation from, 49 

Manzoni, II Conte di Carmagnolafrom, 

125 
Marchetti, sonnet from, 138 
Maremma, the, 191 
Marguerite of France, 521 
Maria di Conti, sonnet from, 138 



Marius among the ruins of Carthage, 212 
Martyrs, the English, 568 
Mary at the feet of Christ, 599 

— the memorial of, 599 

Mary Magdalene at the sepulchre, 600 

— — bearing tidings of the 
resurrection, 600 

Medici, Lorenzo de, sonnet from, 53 
Meeting of the bards, the, 246 

— of the brothers, 437 

— of the ships, 560 
Memorial of Mary, the, 599 

— pillar, the, 410 

Memory of a sister-in-law, to the, 486 

— of Sir H. Ellis, to the, 56 

— of Lord Charles Murray, to 

the, 490 

— of Sir E. Pakenham, to the, 55 

— of the dead, 494 
Message to the dead, the, 459 
Messenger bird, the, 343 

— — answer to, 343 note 
Metastasio, translations from, 47 
Mignon's song, 547 

Mina's soldiers, song of, 541 

Minster, the, 470 

Miriam's song, 598 

Mirror in the deserted hall, the, 484 

Miss F. A. L., to, on her birthday, 295 

— — on her mother's 
death, 296 

Modern Greece, 28 
Moir, D. M., 315, 630 
Monarch's death, a, 423 
Montgomery, James, 362 
Monthly Review, the, 3 
Monti's Basvigliana, translations from, 
118 

— Caius Gracchus, 133 
Monumental inscription, 356 
Moorish bridal-song, 338 

— gathering-song, 540 
More, Hannah, 107 note 
Morehead, Dr, 2j3, 292 notes 
Morgarten, song of the battle of, 253 
Morning song, from Gesner, 52 

" Mother ! oh, sing me to rest," 541 

— to my, 11 

■ — — a sonnet, 2 

— hymn by the sick-bed of a, 

487 
Mother's birthday, on my, 1 

— litany by the sick-bed of a 
child, 596 

Mountain churchyard, Easter-day in a, 
581 

— fires, the, 150 

— sanctuaries, 601 

— winds, to the, 514 
Mourner for the Barmecides, the, 417 
Mozart's requiem, 435 

Muffled drum, the, 552 

Murray, Lord Charles, to the memory 

of, 490 
Music, the voice of, 498 

— at a deathbed, 554 

— from shore, 561 

— of St Patrick's, 557 

— of yesterday, 379 
My own portrait, to, 487 
Myrtle bough, the, 244 

Naples, 536 
National lyrics, 534 

Nature, hope of future communion with, 
623 

— remembrance of, 628 
Nature's farewell, 477 

" Near thee, still near thee," 538 
New-born, to the, 502 
Night, song of, 471 
Night-blowing flowers, 551 
Night-hymn at sea, 597 
Night-scene in Genoa, 99 
Nightingale, the, 532 
Nightingale's death-song, the, 481 
No more, 488 
" No searching eye," 47 



North American Review, the, 113, 293, 

337, 528 
Northern spring, the, 533 
Norton, professor, 113, 186, 293, 336, 

524, 633 
Norwegian war-song, 567 

" O thou breeze of spring," 563 

" O ye hours," 520 

" O ye voices gone," 566 

" O ye voices round," 545 

Ocean, the, 530 

O'Connor's child, 508 

Ode on the defeat of Sebastian of 

Portugal, 254 
" O'er the far blue mountains," 563 
" Oh ! droop thou not," 538 
" Oh ! skylark, for thy wing," 544 
" Oh! those alone," 48 
Old church in an English park, an , 603 
Old Norway, 567 
Olive tree, the, 602 
Orange bough, the, 543 
Orchard blossoms, 619 
Orphan, to an, 486 
Otho, the emperor, 85 
Our daily paths, 370 
— Lady's well, 365 
Owen Glyndwr's war-song, 149 

Paestan rose, the, 28 note 
Painter's last work, the, 595 
Pakenham, Sir E., to the memory of, 55 
Palm-tree, the, 430 
Palmer, the, 501 
Paradise, a thought of, 606 
Parting of summer, the, 366 

— ship, the, 473 

— song, a, 500 

— words, 459 
Passing away, 489 
Pastorini, sonnet from, 49 
Patriarchal life, images of, 620 
Patriotic effusions of the Italian poets, 

translations from, 137 
Paul and Virginia, on reading, 620 
Pauline, 434 

Peasant girl of the Rhone, the, 401 
Pegolotti, sonnet from, 138 
Penitence, the song of, 609 
Penitent anointing Christ's feet, the, 

599 
Penitent's offering, the, 496 

— return, the, 605 
Petrarch, translations from, 51 
Picture of the Madonna, to a, 517 
Pilgrim fathers, landing of the, 429 
Pilgrim's song to the evening star, 560 
Pindemonte, sonnet from, 53 
Places of worship, 602 
Plataea, the tombs of, 251 
Poet's dying hymn, a, 583 
Poetry, the return to, 622 
Portrait, to my own, 487 
Prayer, a, " O God," 1 

— " Father in heaven," 621 

— at sea after victory, 589 

— for life, the, 509 

— in the wilderness, the, 586 

— of affection , 596 

— of the lonely student, 577 
Prince Madoc's farewell, 149 
Prisoners' evening service, the, 587 
Procession, the, 515 

Prologue to the Poor Gentleman, 21 

— Fiesco, 520 
Properzia Rozzi, 392 
Psalm cxlviii. paraphrase of, 533 
Psalms, the poetry of the, 624 
Psyche borne by zephyrs to the island 
of Pleasure, 382 

Quarterly Review, the, 62, 105, 114 
Quevedo, translation from, 50 
Queen of Prussia's tomb, the, 409 

Rainbow, the, 529 

Records of immature genius, on, 617 





INDEX. 


645 


Records of the autumn of 1834, 622 


Skylark, on watching the flight of a, 618 


Sonnet, "Pause not," 49 


— of the spring of 1834, 617 


Sleeper, the, 484 


— " Pilgrim, whose steps," 138 


— of woman, 385 


— of Marathon, the, 295 


— " Poor insect, rash as rare," 


Recovery, 629 


Smith, Elizabeth, lines on, 12 


— 523 


Regondi, Giulio, to, 520 


Soldier's deathbed, the, 461 


— " Saved from the perils," 46 


Remembered picture, to a, 464 


— song of memory, the, 358 


— " She that cast down," 138 


Requiem of genius, the, 482 


Song for air by Hummel, 490 


— " Should love, the tyrant," 45 


Restoration of the works of art to Italy, 


— founded on an Arabian anecdote, 


— " Soft skies of Italy," 57 


22 


293 


— " Soothed by the strain," 523 


Return, the, 453 


— ofDelos,535 


— " Spirit beloved," 45 


— to poetry, the, 622 


— of emigration, 451 


— " Spirit, so oft," 623 


Retzsch's angel of death, on, 628 


— of hope, the, 546 


— " Spirit, whose life sustaining," 


Revellers, the, 364 


— of Mina's soldiers, 541 


602 


Rhine song of the German soldiers, 534. 


— of night, the, 471 


— " Still are the cowslips," 619 


Rhyllon, residence at, 384, note 


— of penitence, the, 609 


— " Still that last look," 620 


Richard Cceur-de-Lion, 101 


— of the battle of Morgarten, the, 


— " Sylph of the breeze," 51 


— — at the bier of 


253 


— " The palm, the vine," 602 


his father, 346 


— . of the rose, a, 550 


— " The plume-like swaying," 


Rio Verde song, the, 539 


— of the Spanish wanderer , 361 


598 


Rivers, the, 529 


— of the Virgin, 599 


— " The sainted spirit," 50 


Rizpah, the vigil of, 598 


Songs for summer hours, 541 


— " Then was a task," 600 


Rock beside the sea, the, 566 


— of a guardian spirit, 538 


— " There are who climb," 622 


— of Cader Idris, the, 152 


— of captivity, 545 


— " There blooms a plant," 46 


Rod of Aaron, the, 495 


— of our fathers, the, 366 


— " There was a mournfulness," 


Roman girl's song, 433 


— of Spain, 539 


599 


Rome, Alaric at, 95, note 


— of the affections, 442 


— " These marble domes," 50 


— buried in her own ruins, 50 


— oftheCid,238 


— " They float before my soul," 


Rose, a song of the, 550 


Sonnet, " A child midst ancient, 601 


623 


— a thought of the, 518 


— " A fearless journeyer," 603 


— " This green recess," 51 


Ruin, the, 469 


— "A song for Israel's God," 598 


— " This mountain-scene," 44 


— and its flowers, the, 13 


— "All the bright hues," 600 


— " Those eyes whence love," 44 


Rural walks, 3 


— " Amidst these scenes," 50 


— " Thou art like night," 628 


Ruth, 598 


— " And come, ye faithful," 597 


— " Thou hast thy record," 599 




— " And ye are strong," 619 


— " Thou in thy morn," 50 


Sabbath sonnet, 629 


— " As the tired voyager," 597 


— " Thou that wouldst mark," 


Sacred harp, the, 600 


— " Back, then, once more," 629 


51 


Sadness and mirth, 480 


— " Beside the streams," 46 


— " Thou by whose power," 45 


St Cecilia, for a picture of, 505 


— " Blessings be round," 603 


— " Thou who hast bled," 50 


St Patrick's, music of, 557 


— " Calm scenes," 620 


— " 'Tis sweet to think," 3 


Sannazaro, sonnet from, 296 


— "Come forth," 621 


— "To thee, maternal guar- 


Sappho, last song of, 549 


— " Crowning a flowery slope," 


dian," 2 


Scene in a Dalecarlian mine, 357 


603 


— " Trees, gracious trees," 619 


Scenes and hymns of life, 568 


— "Doth thy heart stir," 619 


— " 'Twas a bright moment," 


Sceptic, tlie, 106 


— " Exempt from every grief," 47 


623 


Schepler, Louise, two sonnets to, 603 


— " Fair Tajo, there," 44 


— " Under a palm-tree," 600 


Schiller's Wallenstein, 426 


— " Far are the wings," 621 


— " Upward and upward," 618 


Schmidt, the Wanderer from, 523 


— ■ " Far from the rustlings," 617 


— " Waves of Mondego," 47 


Schwerin, marshal, grave of, 555 


— " Father in heaven," 621 


— " We come not, fair one," 


Scio, the voice of, 243 


— " Flowers ! when the Saviour," 


53 


Scott, Sir Walter, 508, 534 


601 


— " Weeper, to thee," 600 


— — funeral-day of, 585 


— " For there a holy," 603 


— " Welcome, O pure," 628 


Sculptured children, the, 496 


— ' ' Happy were they , " 60 1 


— " Well might thine awful," 


Sea, distant sound of the, 618 


— " He that was dead," 602 


628 


— night-hymn at, 597 


— " He who proclaims," 47 


— " What household thoughts," 


— prayer at, 589 


— " High in the glowing," 43 


600 


— sound of the, 356 


— ■ " How flows thy being," 622 


— " What secret current," 620 


— thought of the, 618 


— " How many blessed," 629 


— " When from the mountain," 


Sea-bird flying inland, the, 484 


— " How shall the harp," 600 


— 138 


Sea-song of Gafran, the, 146 


— "I cry aloud," 138 


— "Where shall I find," 47 


Sebastian of Portugal, 256 


— "I dwell among," 598 


— " Whither, celestial maid," 53 


— — — ode on the defeat 


— "Hove to hail," 3 


— " Whither, oh! whither," 628 


of, 254 


— "I met that image," 601 


— " Who watches," 598 


Second-sight, 483 


— "If e'er again," 623 


— ' " Wrapt in sad musings," 43 


Secret tribunal, a tale of the, 194 


— "If thus thy fallen," 49 


— " Ye too, the free," 602 


" Seek by the silvery Darro," 540 


— " If to the sighing, 51 


— " Yes ! all things tell us," 622 


Shade of Theseus, the, 349 


— "Italia, O Italia," 49 


— " Yet as a sunburst," 599 


Shadow of a flower, the, 491 


— " Italia, oh ! no more," 138 


— " Yet rolling far," 618 


Shakspeare, 2 


— " Like those pale stars," 599 


Sonnets, devotional and memorial, 600 


Shepherd-poet of the Alps, the, 512 


— ' ' Lowliest of women , " 598 


Sound of the sea, the, 356 


Shore of Africa, the, 138 


— " Majestic plant," 623 


— — — the distant, 618 


Shunamite woman, reply of the, 598 


— " My earliest memories," 618 


Southern cross, the, 332 note 


Sicilian captive, the, 412 


— " Nobly thy song," 624 


Spain, songs of, 539 


Sickness, thoughts during, G27 


— " Not long thy voice," 620 


Spanish chapel, the, 418 


— like night, 628 


— "O Cambrian river," 618 


— evening hymn, 540 


Siege of Valencia, the, 262 


— "O gentle story," 620 


— wanderer, song of the, 361 


Silent multitude, the, 493 


— "O festal spring," 617 


Spartans' march, the, 243 


Silver locks, the, 10 


— "O nature ! there," 628 


Spells of home, the, 433 


Silvio Pellico, to, 622 


— "O thought, O memory," 627 


Spirit, flight of the, 628 


— — released, 622 


— "O vale and lake," 619 


— of the Cape, appearance of the, 


" Sing to me, gondolier," 563 


— " Oft have I sung, "45 


to Vasco de Gama, 297 


" Sister ! since I met thee last," 559 


— ' ' Oft in still night-dreams, "624 


Spirit's mysteries, the, 429 


Sister's dream, the, 507 


— " Oh ! bless'd beyond," 599 


— return, a, 442 


Sisters, the, 548 


— " Oh ! judge in thoughtful," 


Spring of 1834, records of the, 617 


— of Bethany, the, 599 


— 617 


— the voice of, 247 


— of Scio, the, 455 


— " Oh ! what a joy," 621 


Stanzas on the death of the Princess 


Sister-in-law, to the memory of a, 486 


— " On Judah's hills," 602 


Charlotte, 59 


Sky, to the, 617 


— " Once more the eternal," 622 


— to the memory of , 360 


Skylark, the, 532 


1 — " One grief, one faith," 599 


— — — George III., 187 



646 


INDEX. 




Star of the mine, the, 485 


Thunderstorm, the, 531 


Visiting a tomb, written after, 519 


Stars, the, 530 


Tomb, written after visiting a, 519 


Voice of a spirit, the, 364 


Stewart, Dugald, 370 note 


— of Madame Langhans, the, 457 


— of God, the, 495 


Storm of Delphi, the, 241 


Tombs of Platasa, the, 251 


— of home to the prodigal, the, 377 


Storm-painter in his dungeon, the, 471 


Translations from Camoens, 43 


— i of music, the, 498 


Stranger in Louisiana, the, 343 


— from Horace, 298 


— of Scio, the, 243 


Stranger's heart, the, 464 


— from the Italian, 118, 137 


— of spring, the, 247 


Stream set free, the, 543 


— from the Tasso, &c, of 


— of the waves, the, 511 


Streams, the, 474 


Goethe, 611 


— of the wind, 475 


Student's prayer, the, 577 


Traveller at the source of the Nile, the, 


Voyager's dream of land, a, 427 


Subterranean stream, the, 492 


368 




Suliote mother, the, 352 


Traveller's evening song, the, 579 


Wakening, the, 378 


Summer hours, songs for, 541 


— household, hymn of, on his 


Wales, farewell to, 499 


Summer's call, the, 543 


return, 594 


Wallace's invocation to Bruce, 63 


— parting, the, 366 


Treasures of the deep, the, 361 


Wanderer, the, 523 


Sun, the, 529 


Trees, thoughts connected with, 619 


— and the night-flowers, 551 


Sunbeam, the, 431 


Triumphant music, 483 


Wandering female singer, to a, 501 


Sunset, a thought at, 620 


Troubadour song," The warrior cross'd," 


— wind, the, 542 


Superstition and revelation, 114 


361 


Washington's statue, 485 


Swan and the skylark, the, 552 


— — "They rear'd no trophy," 


Wasp, sonnet to, and reply, 523 


" Sweet rose," 48 


609 


Water-lilies, 565 


Swiss song, 342 


— and Richard Cceur-de-Lion, 


Water-lily, the, 608 


Switzer'swife, the, 391 


the, 101 


Watts, A. A., 248 note 


Sword of the tomb, the, 339 


Trumpet, the, 374 


Waves, voice of the, 511 


" Sylph of the breeze," 51 


Two homes, the, 460 


" We return no more," 500 




— monuments, the, 604 


Weary, evening song of the, 592 


Tale of the secret tribunal, a, 194 


— voices, the, 472 


Welcome to death, the, 509 


— of the fourteenth century, a, 213 


Tyrolese peasants, evening song of the, 


Welsh melodies, 145 


Tales and historic scenes, 67, 190 


494 


West, W. E., 488 


Taliesin's prophecy, 148 




" What woke the buried sound," 563 


Tarak, the Moorish conqueror, 77 notes 


Ulla, 421 


" Where is the sea," 487 


Tasso, Bernardo, sonnet from, 50 


" Unbending midst the wintry skies," 48 


Widow of Crescentius, the, 85 


— Torquato, sonnet from, 50 


Urn and sword, the, 244 


Widow's son, raising of the, 602 


— and his sister, 420 




Wife of Asdrubal, the, 97 


— Goethe's, scenes from, 611 


Valencia, the siege of, 262 


Wild Huntsman, the, 348 


Tasso's coronation, 479 — Release *421 


Valkyriur song, 340 


Wilderness, prayer in the, 586 


Tempe, vale of, 31 note 


Vasco de Gama, appearance of the spi- 


William the Conqueror, burial of, 375 


Terrot, Rev. Mr, 66 note 


rit of the Cape to, 297 


Willow song, the, 542 


" The sainted spirit," 50 


Vassal's lament for the fallen tree, the, 


Wilson, Professor, 456 


" The torrent- wave," 48 


347 


Wind, voice of the, 475 


Thekla at her lover's grave, 455 


Vaudois mountaineers, hymn of the, 


Wings of the dove, the, 381 


Thekla's song, 364 


588 


Wish, the, 519 


Themes of song, the, 534 


— valleys, the, 360 


Woman and fame, 497 


" There are sounds in the dark Ron- 


— wife, the, 453 


— on the field of battle, 462 


cesvalles," 541 


Vega, Garcilaso de, translations from, 


Women of Jerusalem at the Cross, the, 


" These marble domes," 50 


52, 296 


599 


Theseus, the shade of, 349 


— Lope de, sonnet from, 49 


Wood walk and hymn, 576 


" This green recess," 51 


Venus, to, from Horace, 298 


Wordsworth, William, 568 note 


" Thou grot, whence flows," 52 


Vernal thought, a, 617 


— — to, 422 


" Thou, in thy morn," 50 


Vespers of Palermo, the, 153 


Works of art, restoration of the, 22 


" Thou that wouldstmark," 51 


Victor, the, 510 


World in the open air, the, 367 


" Thou, the stern monarch," 51 


Victory, prayer at sea after, 589 


" Wouldst thou to love," 48 


" Thou who hast bled," 50 


View from Castri, the, 251 


Wounded eagle, the, 480 


Thought from an Italian poet, 489 


Vigil of arms, the, 476 


Wreck, the, 373 


— of home at sea, 486 


— ofRizpah, the, 598 




— of Paradise, a, 606 


Violets, 53 


"Ye are not miss'd, fair flowers," 542 


— of the future, a, 498 


Virgil's tomb, on a leaf from, 245 


Younger brother, to my, 11 


— of the rose, a, 518 


Virgin, Italian girl's hymn to the, 449 




— of the sea, a, 618 


Virgin's song, the, 599 


Zegri maid, the, 539 





INDEX OF FIEST LINES 



A blessing on thy head, thou child of many hopes and fears, 502 

A child beside a hamlet's fount at play, 604 

A child midst ancient mountains I have stood, 601 

A deep-toned lyre hung murmuring, 478 

A dim and mighty minster of old time, 574 

A fearless journeyer o'er the mountain-snow, 603 

A glorious voice hath ceased, 585 

A lyre its plaintive sweetness pour'd, 559 

A mighty and a mingled throng, 493 

A monarch on his deathbed lay, 423 

A mournful gift is mine, my friends, 483 

A requiem, and for whom, 435 

A song for Israel's God ! Spear, crest, and helm, 598 

A song for the death-day of the brave, 425 

A song was heard of old, a low sweet song, 535 

A sound comes on the rising breeze, 561 

A sound of music from amidst the hills, 415 

A sound of woe in Salem ! mournful cries, 98 

A sounding step was heard by night, 476 

A trumpet's note is in the sky, in the glorious Roman sky, 479 

A voice from Scio's isle, 243 

A voice from times departed yet floats thy hills among, 148 

A voice of woe, a murmur of lament, 255 

Awail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young, 350 

A youth rode forth from his childhood's home, 477 

A youth went forth to exile, from a home, 351 

Again, oh send that anthem-peal again, 557 

Ah cease ! these fruitless tears restrain, 49 

All night the booming minute-gun, 373 

All the bright hues from Eastern garlands glowing, 601 

Alone through gloomy forest-shades, 537 

Along the star-lit Seine went music swelling, 404 

Amidst the bitter tears that fall, 46 

Amidst the peopled and the regal isle, 141 

Amidst the thrilling leaves, thy voice, 495 

Amidst those scenes, O pilgrim ! seek'st thou Rome, 50 

And come, ye faithful ! round Messiah seen, 597 

And is there glory from the heaven departed, 375 

And is there sadness in thy dreams, my boy, 458 

And shrink ye from the way, 430 

And there they sleep, the men who stood, 251 

And was thy home, pale wither'd thing, 245 

And ye are strong to shelter : all meek things, 619 

Another warning sound ! The funeral bell, 187 

Answer me, burning stars of night, 424 

Answer, ye chiming waves, 511 

Apropos of your illness, pray give, if you please, 139 

Are ye for ever to your skies departed, 354 

Arise ! old Norway sends the word, 567 

Art thou come from the far-off land at last, 501 

As the tired voyager on stormy seas, 597 



Ask'st thou my home ? my pathway wouldst thou know, 
Ave ! now let prayer and music, 540 
Away ! though still thy sword is red, 293 
Ay, warrior, arm ! and wear thy plume, 490 

Back then, once more to breast the waves of life, 629 

Banners hung drooping from on high, 604 

Bear them not from grassy dells, 556 

Before the fiery sun, 242 

Beings of brighter worlds, that rise at times, 114 

Beside the streams of Babylon, in tears, 46 

Bird of the greenwood, 556 

Bird, that art singing on Ebro's side, 540 

Birds, joyous birds of the wandering wing, 434 

Blessing and love be round thee still, fair boy, 520 

Blessings be round it still, that gleaming fane, 603 

Blessings, O Father ! shower, 596 

Brave spirit ! mourn'd with fond regret, 55 

Bride ! upon thy marriage-day, 466 

Brightly, brightly hast thou fled, 562 

Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, 362 

Bring music ! stir the brooding air, 554 

Broods there some spirit here, 577 

By a mountain -stream at rest, 566 

By the blue waters, the restless ocean-waters, 627 

By the dark stillness brooding in the sky, 607 

By the dread and viewless powers, 145 

By the mighty minster's bell, 372 

By the soft green light in the woody glade, 433 

Call back your odours, lovely flowers, 551 

Call it not loneliness to dwell, 210 

Calm on the bosom of thy God, 357 

Calm scenes of patriarch life ! how long a power, 620 

Chains on the cities, gloom in the air, 540 

Chieftains, lead on ! our hearts beat high, 58 

Child ! amidst the flowers at play, 377 

Children of night, unfolding meekly, slowly, 551 

Clad in all their brightest green, 1 

Come away, elves ! while the dew is sweet, 565 

Come away ! the child, where flowers are springing, 560 

Come away ! the sunny hours, 543 

Come forth, and let us through our hearts receive, 621 

Come from the woods with the citron flowers, 388 

Come home ! there is a sorrowing breath, 465 

Come, let me make a sunny realm around thee, 504 

Come near, ere yet the dust, 353 

Come to me, dreams of heaven, 564 

Come to me, gentle sleep, 567 

dome to me, when my soul, 519 

Come to me with your triumphs and your woes, 477 



648 



INDEX OF FIKST LINES. 



Come to the land of peace, 499 

Come to the sunset tree, 494 

Come to the woods, my boy, 592 

Come, while in freshness and dew it lies, 367 

Creature of air and light, 491 

Crowning a flowery slope, it stood alone, 603 

Dark chieftain of the heath and height, 506 

Darkly the cloud of night comes rolling on, 558 

Darkly thou glidest onward, 492 

Daughter of the Italian heaven, 469 

Day is past, 564 

Deep, fiery clouds o'ercast the sky, 531 

Divine Eliza ! since the sapphire sky, 296 

Doth thy heart stir within thee at the sight, 619 

Down a broad river of the Western wilds, 402 

Dreamer ! and wouldst thou know, 498 

Dream'st thou of heaven ? What dreams are thine, 518 

Droop not, my brothers ! I hear a glad strain, 546 

Eagle ! this is not thy sphere, 480 
Earth ! guard what here we lay in holy trust, 356 
Enjoy the sweets of life's luxuriant May, 52 
Exempt from every grief, 'twas mine to live, 47 

Fair gratitude in strain sublime, 14 

Fair images of sleep, 497 

Fair Tajo, thou whose calmly-flowing tide, 44 

Fair vision ! thou'rt from sunny skies, 517 

Fair wert thou in the dreams, 249 

Fallen was the house of Giafar ; and its name, 417 

Far are the wings of intellect astray, 621 

Far away ! my home is far away, 558 

Far from the rustlings of the poplar bough, 617 

Far through the Delphian shades, 241 

Farewell, beloved and mourn 'd ! we miss awhile, 520 

Father ! guide me ; day declines, 579 

Father in heaven, from whom the simplest flower, 621 

Father of heaven and earth, 592 

Father ! that in the olive shade, 487 

Faunus ! who lov'st the flying nymphs to chase, 299 

Fear was within the tossing bark, 355 

Fearfully and mournfully, 382 

Fill high the blue hirlas that shines like the wave, 146 

Firm be thy soul, serene in power, 299 

Fling forth the proud banner of Leon again, 539 

Flow on ! rejoice, make music, 543 

Flow, Rio Verde, 539 

Flower of starry clearness bright, 610 

Flowers ! when the Saviour's calm benignant eye, 601 

For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 588 

For thou, a holy shepherdess and kind, 603 

Forget them not, though now their name, 494 

Fortune ! why thus, where'er my footsteps tread, 48 

Fount of the woods ! thou art hid no more, 365 

From a ruin thou art singing, 559 

From the bright stars, or from the viewless air, 449 

From the deep chambers of a mine, 485 

From the glowing southern regions, 150 

Gentle and lovely form, 462 

Gloom is upon thy lonely hearth, 463 

Go forth ! for she is gone, 338 

Go in thy glory o'er the ancient sea, 473 

Go to the forest glade, 438 

Go ! trace th* unnumber'd streams o'er earth, 529 



Green spot of holy ground, 606 

Green wave the oak for ever o'er thy rest, 424 

Hail ! morning sun, thus early bright, 52 

Happy soon we'll meet again, 2 

Happy thou art, the child of one, 485 

Happy were they, the mothers, in whose sight, 601 

Hark ! from the dim church-tower, 553 

Hark ! from the right bursts forth a trumpet's sound, 128 

Harp of the mountain-land ! sound forth again, 145 

Hast thou been in the woods with the honey-bee, 506 

Hast thou come with the heart of thy childhood back, 453 

Haste with your torches, haste ! make firelight round, 357 

Hath the summer's breath on the south wind borne, 484 

Have ye left the greenwood lone, 562 

He passed from earth, 609 

He sat in silence on the ground, 414 

He shall not dread misfortune's angry mien, 48 

He that in venturous barks hath been, 530 

He that was dead rose up and spoke ! He spoke, 602 

He walk'd with God in holy joy, 495 

He who proclaims that love is light and vain, 47 

Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blast, 95 

Heart ! that didst press forward still, 476 

Her hands were clasp 'd, her dark brows raised, 394 

Her home is far, oh ! far away, 564 

Here in the dust, its strange adventures o'er, 21 

High in the glowing heavens, with cloudless beams, 43 

Hold me upon thy faithful heart, 561 

Home of the gifted, fare thee well, 508 

How can that eye, with inspiration beaming, 505 

How can that love, so deep, so lone, 565 

How flows thy being now ? like some glad hymn, 622 

How is it that before mine eyes, 487 

How many a day, in various hues array'd, 12 

How many blessed groups this hour are bending, 629 

How many hopes were borne upon thy bier, 457 

How many thousands are wakening now, 378 

How much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom, 518 

How shall the harp of poesy regain, 600 

How strange a fate in love is mine, 45 

Hush ! lightly tread ! still tranquilly she sleeps, 572 

Hush ! 'tis a holy hour. The quiet room, 374 

Hush'd is the world in night and sleep, 55 

I am free ! I have burst through my galling chain, 491 

I call thee bless 'd, though now the voice be fled, 461 

I come down from the hills alone, 523 

I come, I come ! ye have call'd me long, 247 

I come to thee, O earth, 471 

I cry aloud, and ye shall hear my call, 138 

I dream of all things free, 546 

I go, I go ! and must mine image fade, 382 

I go, sweet friends ! yet think of me, 354 

I go, sweet sister! yet my heart would linger with thee fain, 548 

I hate the Persian's costly pride, 298 

I hear thee speak of the better land, 479 

I heard a song upon the wandering wind, 554 

I lay on that rock where the storms have their dwelling, 152 

I lay upon the solemn plain, 295 

I look'd on the field where the battle was spread, 605 

I love to hear the mild and balmy hour, 3 

I love to rove o'er history's page, 2 

I made a mountain -brook my guide, 418 

I met that image on a mirthful day, 601 

I saw him at his sport ere while, 583 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



649 



I stood upon the threshold-stone, 626 

I stood beside thy lonely grave, 411 

I stood where the lip of song lay low, 519 

I would we had not met again, 565 

If e'er again my spirit be allow'd, 623 

If e'er from human bliss or woe, 11 

If, in thy glorious home above, 44 

If it be sad to speak of treasures gone, 423 

If thus thy fallen grandeur I behold, 49 

If thou hast crush'd a flower, 562 

If to the sighing breeze of summer hours, 51 

In Genoa, when the sunset gave, 99 

In sunset's light o'er Afric thrown, 368 

In tears, the heart oppress'd with grief, 47 

In the deep hour of dreams, 449 

In the deep wilderness unseen she pray'd, 586 

In the full tide of melody and mirth, 860 

In the proud old fanes of England, 545 

In the shadow of the Pyramid, 516 

In the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread, 294 

In the silence of the midnight, 450 

In thy cavern-hall, 551 

Io ! they come, they come, 536 

Is not thy heart far off amidst the woods, 359 

Is there some spirit sighing, 566 

It is the Rhine ! our mountain-vineyards laving, 534 

It is thy pity makes me weep, 563 

It is written on the rose, 489 

It stands where Northern willows weep, 409 

It was an hour of fear and grief, 238 

It was the time when children bound to meet, 391 

It waved not through an Eastern sky,430 

Italia ! O Italia ! thou so graced, 49 

Italia ! oh ! no more Italia now, 138 

Joy is upon the lonely seas, 378 

Joy ! the lost one is restored, 594 

Know ye not when our dead, 349 

Know'st thou the land where bloom the citron bowers, 547 

Land of departed fame, whose classic plains, 22 

Leave me not yet, though rosy skies afar, 543 

Leave me, oh ! leave me ! unto all below, 459 

Leaves have their time to fall, 375 

Let the vain courtier waste his days, 49 

Let the yellow mead shine for the sons of the brave, 148 

Life's parting beams were in his eye, 59 

Light the hills, till heaven is glowing, 150 

Like thee to die, thou Sun ! my boyhood's dream, 461 

Like those pale stars of tempest hours, whose gleam, 599 

Listen, fair maid ! my song shall tell, 52 

Lonely and still are now thy marble halls, 67 

Look from the ancient mountains down, 609 

Look on me with thy cloudless eyes, 561 

Look on the white Alps round, 342 

Lowliest of women and most glorified, 598 

Lowly and solemn be, 585 

Lowly upon his bier, 537 

Majestic plant ! such fairy dreams as lie, 623 

Mark'd ye the mingling of the city's throng, 59 

Midnight ! and silence deep, 471 

Midst the long reeds that o'er a Grecian stream, 552 

Midst Tivoli's luxuriant glades, 85 

Mighty ones, Love and Death, 510 

Minstrel, whose gifted hand can bring, 19 



Morn once again ! morn in the lone dim cell, 568 

Mother and child, whose blending tears, 410 

Mother ! oh sing me to rest, 541 

Mountain-winds ! oh whither do ye call me, 514 

Mournfully, sing mournfully, 481 

My battle-vow ! no minster walls, 454 

My child, my child, thou leav'st me ! I shall hear, 408 

My earliest memories to thy shores are bound, 618 

My father's house once more ! 605 

My soul was mantled with dark shadows, born, 624 

Near thee ! still near thee ! o'er thy pathway gliding, 538 

Night, holy night ! the time, 577 

Night hung on Salem's towers, 606 

Night sinks on the wave, 597 

Night veil'd the mountain of the vine, 194 

No bitter tears for thee be shed, 54 

No cloud obscures the summer sky, 530 

No cloud to dim the splendours of the day, 103 

No dower of storied song is thine, 469 

No more ! a harp-string's deep and breaking tone, 488 

No searching eye can pierce the veil, 47 

No tears for thee ! though light be from us gone, 482 

Nobly thy song, O minstrel ! rush'd to meet, 624 

Not for the myrtle and not for the vine, 361 

Not long thy voice among us may be heard, 620 

O Cambrian river, with slow music gliding, 618 

O dim forsaken mirror, 484 

O ever joyous band, 493 

O festal spring, midst thy victorious glow, 617 

O gentle story of the Indian isle, 620 

O God, my Father and my Friend, 1 

O joy of the peasant, O stately lime, 555 

O lonely voices of the sky, 437 

O Nature, thou didst rear me for thine own, 628 

O soft star of the west, 560 

O Son of Man, 574 

O spirit-land, thou land of dreams, 462 

O sunshine and fair earth, 509 

O thou breeze of spring, 563 

O thou whose pure exalted mind, 12 

O Thought ! O Memory ! gems for ever heaping, 627 

O vale and lake ! within your mountain-urn, 619 

O wanderer ! would thy heart forget, 54 

O ye hours, ye sunny hours, 520 

O ye voices gone, 566 

O ye voices round my own hearth singing, 545 

O'er the far blue mountains, 563 

Oft have I sung and mourn'd the bitter woes, 45 

Oft in still night-dreams a departed face, 624 

Oh ! art thou still on earth, my love, 546 

Oh ! ask not, hope thou not too much, 367 

Oh ! beautiful thou art, 608 

Oh ! bless'd beyond all daughters of the earth, 599 

Oh ! blest art thou whose steps may rove, 528 

Oh ! bring me one sweet orange bough, 543 

Oh ! call my brother back to me, 502 

Oh ! droop thou not, mine early gentle love, 538 

Oh ! enter not yon shadowy cave, 341 

Oh ! for thy wings, thou dove, 381 

Oh ! forget not the hour when through forest and vale, 56 

Oh ! how could fancy crown with thee, 354, 557 

Oh .' if thou wilt not give thine heart, 490 

Oh ! judge in thoughtful tenderness of those. 617 

Oh ! leave thine own loved isle, 298 



650 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Oh ! lightly, lightly tread, 484 

Oh ! lightly tread through these deep chestnut bowers, 510 

Oh ! many a voice is thine, thou wind ! full many a voice, 475 

Oh ! may I ever pass my happy hours, 3 

Oh ! ne'er be Clanronald the valiant forgot, 58 

Oh ! pure and blessed soul, 296 

Oh ! skylark, for thy wing, 544 

Oh ! tell me not the woods are fair, 566 

Oh ! those alone whose severed hearts, 48 

Oh ! wear it on thy heart, my love, 565 

Oh ! what a joy to feel that, in my heart, 621 

Oh ! when wilt thou return , 377 

Oh ! who hath trod thy consecrated clime, 28 

Oh ! worthy fragrant gifts of flowers and wine, 299 

On Judah's hills a weight of darkness hung, 602 

Once more the eternal melodies from far, 622 

One draught, kind fairy ! from that fountain deep, 465 

One dream of passion and of beauty more, 392 

One grief, one faith, O sisters of the dead, 599 

One hour for distant homes to weep, 545 

Pause not with lingering feet, O pilgrim ! here, 49 
Peace to thy dreams ! thou art slumbering now, 380 
Pilgrim ! oh say, hath thy cheek been fann'd, 361 
Pilgrim ! whose steps these desert sands explore, 138 
Poor insect, rash as rare ! thy sovereign, sure, 523 
Praise ye the Lord ! on every height, 533 
Press on, my steed ! I hear the swell, 150 
Propitious winds our daring bark impelled, 297 

Raise ye the sword ! let the death-stroke be given, 151 

Rest on your battle-fields, ye brave, 245 

Rest, pilgrim, rest ! Thou'rt from the Syrian land, 363 

Return my thoughts ! come home, 607 

Return, return, my bird, 521 

Ring, joyous chords ! ring out again, 364 

Rise like an altar-fire, 575 

Rocks of my country ! let the cloud, 376 

Rome ! Rome ! thou art no more, 433 

Rose ! what dost thou here, 550 

Royal in splendour went down the day, 398 

Saved from the perils of the stormy wave, 46 

Saviour ! that of woman born, 596 

Saw ye the blazing star, 149 

Say not 'tis fruitless — nature's holy tear, 296 

Seek by the silvery Darro, 540 

See'st thou my home ? 'Tis where yon woods are waving, 460 

See'st thou yon gray gleaming hall, 511 

She came forth in her bridal robes array'd, 502 

She dwelt in proud Venetian halls, 515 

She knelt in prayer. A stream of sunset fell, 407 

She sat, where on each wind that sigh'd, 420 

She sleeps, but not the free and sunny sleep, 507 

She stood upon the loftiest peak, 352 

She that cast down the empires of the world, 138 

Should love, the tyrant of my suffering heart, 45 

Silent and mournful sat an Indian chief, 371 

Sing, sing in memory of the brave departed, 358 

Sing them upon the sunny hills, 366 

Sing to me, Gondolier, 563 

Singing of the free blue sky, 512 

Sister ! since I met thee last, 559 

Sister, sweet sister ! let me weep awhile, 455 

Sleep midst thy banners furl'd, 365 

Sleep, O beloved companion of my woes, 119 



Sleep ! — we give thee to the wave, 559 

Soft falls the mild reviving shower, 529 

Soft skies of Italy ! how richly drest, 57 

Soldier, awake ! the night is past, 562 

Son of the mighty and the free, 57 

Son of the ocean isle, 246 

Son of the stranger ! wouldst thou take, 344 

Sons of the fair isle ! forget not the time, 152 

Sooth'd by the strain, the wasp thus made reply, 523 

Sound on ! thou dark, unslumbering sea, 549 

Speak low ! — the place is holy to the breath, 470 

Spirit beloved ! whose wing so soon hath flown, 45 

Spirit ! so oft in radiant freedom soaring, 623 

Spirit ! whose life-sustaining presence fills, 602 

Still are the cowslips from thy bosom springing, 619 

Still green along our sunny shore, 244 

Still is the Syren warbling on thy shore, 536 

Still that last look is solemn ! though thy rays, 620 

Stop, passenger ! a wondrous tale to list, 20 

Surely 'tis all a dream, a fever-dream, 579 

Sweet rose ! whose tender foliage to expand, 48 

Sweets of the wild, that breathe and bloom, 13 

Sylph of the breeze, whose dewy pinions light, 51 

That was a joyous day in Rheims of old, 403 

The Alpine horn, the Alpine horn, 545 

The bark that held a prince went down, 346 

The blue, deep, glorious heavens ! I lift mine eye, 583 

The boy stood on the burning deck, 369 

The breaking waves dash'd high, 429 

The bright hours return, the blue sky is ringing, 147 

The champions had come from their fields of war, 412 

The chord, the harp's full chord is hush'd, 379 

The citron groves their fruits and flowers were strewing, 338 

The corn in golden light, 348 

The dead ! the glorious dead ! and shall they rise, 468 

The fever's hue hath left thy cheek, beloved, 595 

The fires grew pale on Rome's deserted shrines, 221 

The gloomiest day hath gleams of light, 501 

The hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night, 147 

The hall of harps is lone to-night. 152 

The hearth, the hearth is desolate, the fire is quench'd, 380 

The hills all glow'd with a festive light, 432 

The hollow dash of waves, the ceaseless roar, 427 

The infant muse, Jehovah ! would aspire, 1 

The Kaiser feasted in his hall, 419 

The kings of old have shrine and tomb, 376 

The moonbeam quivering o'er the wave, 213 

The Moor had beleaguer'd Valencia's walls, 239 

The morn rose bright on scenes renown'd, 63 

The Moslem spears were gleaming, 521 

The muffled drum was heard, 552 

The night-wind shook the tapestry round an ancient, 405 

The palm, the vine, the cedar, each hath power, 602 

The plume-like swaying of the auburn corn, 598 

The power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken, 429 

The rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain, 372 

The sainted spirit which from bliss on high, 50 

The sea-bird's wing o'er ocean's breast, 434 

The sea-king woke from the troubled sleep, 340 

The skylark, when the dews of morn, 532 

The sleep of storms is dark upon the skies, 508 

The sound of thy streams in my spirit I hear, 499 

The spirit of my land, 379 

The stately homes of England, 412 

The stranger's heart ! oh ! wound it not, 464 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



651 



The summer leaves were sighing, 539 

The sun comes forth : each mountain height, 529 

The sun sets brightly : but a ruddier glow, 97 

The torrent-wave, that breaks with force, 48 

The troubadour o'er many a plain, 101 

The trumpet of the battle, 567 

The trumpet's voice hath roused the land, 374 

The vesper-bell from church and tower, 547 

The voices of my home ! I hear them still, 316 

The voices of two forest boys, 437 

The war-note of the Saracen, 446 

The warrior bow'd his crested head, and tamed his heart, 456 

The warrior cross'd the ocean's foam, 361 

The wind, the wandering wind, 542 

The wine-month shone in its golden prime, 255 

The woods ! oh, solemn are the boundless woods, 396 

Theirs was no dream, O monarch hill, 151 

Then was a task of glory all thine own, 600 

There are bright scenes beneath Italian skies, 191 

There are sounds in the dark Roncesvalles, 541 

There are the aspens with their silvery hair, 576 

There are who climb the mountain's heathery side, 622 

There blooms a plant, whose gaze from hour to hour, 46 

There have been bright and glorious pageants here, 251 

There is a wakening on the mighty hills, 581 

There was a mournfulness in angel eyes, 599 

There was heard a song on the chiming sea, 451 

There was heard the sound of a coming foe, 345 

There was music on the midnight, 448 

There went a dirge through the forest's gloom, 457 

There went a warrior's funeral through the night, 401 

There were faint sounds of weeping ; fear and gloom, 467 

There were sights and sounds of revelry, 452 

There were thick leaves above me and around, 427 

There were trampling sounds of many feet, 515 

There's beauty all around our paths, if but our watchful eyes,370 

These marble domes, by wealth and genius graced, 50 

They float before my soul, the fair designs, 623 

They grew in beauty, side by side, 435 

They haunt me still, these calm, pure, holy eyes, 464 

They have wander 'd in their glee, 541 

They rear'd no trophy o'er his grave, 609 

They sought for treasures in the tomb, 244 

Thine eyes are charm'd, thine earnest eyes, 458 

Thine is a strain to read among the hills, 422 

This green recess, where through the bowery gloom, 51 

This mountain scene with sylvan grandeur crown'd, 44 

Those eyes whence love diffused her purest light, 44 

Thou art a thing on our dreams to rise, 357 

Thou art bearing hence thy roses, 366 

Thou art come from the spirit's land, thou bird, 343 

Thou art gone, thou art slumbering low, 421 

Thou art like night, O sickness! deeply stilling, 628 

Thou art no lingerer in monarchs' hall, 431 

Thou art passing hence, my brother, 459 

Thou art sounding on, thou mighty sea, 356 

Thou art welcome, O thou warning voice, 509 

Thou didst fall on the field with thy silver hair, 555 

Thou grot, whence flows this limpid spring, 52 

Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame, 497 

Thou hast been rear'd too tenderly, 486 

Thou hast been where the rocks of coral grow, 481 

Thou hast loved and thou hast suffered, 501 

Thou hast thy record in the monarch's hall, 599 

Thou hast watch'd beside the bed of death, 507 

Thou in thy morn wert like a glowing rose, 50 



Thou mov'st in visions, Love ! around thy way, 503 

Thou see'st her pictured with her shining hair, 416 

Thou shouldst be look'd on when the starlight falls, 250 

Thou shouldst have slept beneath the stately pines, 490 

Thou sleepest, but when wilt thou wake, fair child, 431 

Thou that canst gaze upon thine own fair boy, 356 

Thou that hast loved so long and well, 489 

Thou that with pallid cheek, 496 

Thou that wouldst mark in form of human birth, 51 

Thou the stern monarch of dismay, 51 

Thou thing of years departed, 436 

Thou to whose power my hopes, my joys, I gave, 45 

Thou wak'st from rosy sleep to play, 355 

Thou who hast fled from life's enchanted bowers, 50 

Though dark are the prospects and heavy the hours, 11 

Though youth may boast the curls that flow, 10 

Throne of expression, whence the spirit's ray, 59 

Through evening's bright repose, 589 

Thy foes had girt thee with their dread array, 93 

Thy heart is in the upper world, where fleet the chamois, 450 

Thy rest was deep at the slumberer's hour, 348 

Thy voice is in mine ear, beloved, 453 

Thy voice prevails ! Dear friend, my gentle friend, 442 

Thy voice was in my soul, it call'd me on, 455 

'Tis lone on the waters, 486 

'Tis sweet to think the spirits of the blest, 3 

To thee, maternal guardian of my youth, 2 

To-night, kind friends, at your tribunal here, 21 

Too long apart, a bright but sever'd band, 520 

Too long have tyranny and power combined, 4 

Torches were blazing clear, 346 

Trees, gracious trees, how rich a gift ye are, 619 

Tribes of the air, whose favour'd race, 531 

'Twas a bright moment of my life, when first, 623 

'Twas a dream of olden days, 491 

'Twas a lovely thought to mark the hours, 3S9 

'Twas but a dream ! I saw the stag leap free, 385 

'Twas early day, and sunlight stream 'd, 437 

'Twas morn upon the Grecian hills, 243 

'Twas night in Babylon ; yet many a beam, 219 

'Twas night upon the Alps. The Senn's wild horn, 234 

'Twas noon, and Afric's dazzling sun on high, 212 

'Twas the deep mid-watch of the silent night, 241 

Two barks met on the deep mid-sea, 560 

Two solemn voices in a funeral strain , 472 

Unbending midst the watery skies, 48 
Under a palm-tree, by the green old Nile, 600 
Upward, and upward still ! in pearly light, 618 
Voice of the gifted elder time, 339 

"Warrior ! whose image on thy tomb, 428 

Warriors ! my noon of life is past, 56 

Was it the sigh'of the southern gale, 495 

Was that the light from some lone swift canoe, 590 

Watch ye well ! the moon is shrouded, 146 

Waves of Mondego, brilliant and serene, 47 

We come not, fair one ! to thy hand of snow, 53 

We have the myrtle's breath around us here, 394 

We heard thy name, O Mina, 541 

We miss thy voice, while early flowers are blooming, 486 

We return, we return, we return no more, 500 

We saw thee, O stranger ! and wept, 343 

We see no more in thy pure skies, 588 

Weep thou no more ! O monarch! dry thy tears, 12] 

Weeper ! to thee how bright a morn was given, 600 



652 



INDEX OF FIEST LINES. 



Weep'st thou for him whose doom was seal'd, 56 

Welcome, O pure and lovely forms ! again, 628 

Well might thine awful image thus arise, 628 

What are the lessons given, 252 

What dost thou here, brave Swiss, 294 

What first should consecrate as thine, 295 

What hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells, 361 

What household thoughts around thee as their shrine, 600 

What secret current of man's nature turns, 620 

What wak'st thou, spring ? Sweet voices in the woods, 432 

What was your doom, my father ? In thine arms, 587 

What wish can friendship form for thee, 295 

What woke the buried sound that lay, 563 

When from the mountain's brow the gathering shade, 138 

When the last blush of eve is dying, 148 

When the soft breath of spring goes forth, 533 

When the tide's billowy swell, 492 

When the young eagle with exulting eye, 106 

When thy bounding step I hear, 524 

When twilight's gray and pensive hour, 532 

When will ye think of me, my friends, 500 

Whence are those tranquil joys in mercy given, 15 

Whence art thou, flower ? From holy ground, 244 

Whence is the might of thy master-spell, 498 

Where are the vintage-songs, 546 

Where are they, those green fairy islands, reposing, 146 

Where is the sea ? I languish here, 487 

Where is the summer with her golden sun, 349 

Where is the tree the prophet threw, 496 

Where met our bards of old ? The glorious throng, 246 

Where shall I find some desert scene so rude, 47 

Where shall I find in all this fleeting earth, 489 

Where shall the minstrel find a theme, 534 

Where shall we make her grave, 549 



Where sucks the bee now ? Summer is flying, 355 

Where the long reeds quiver, 581 

Wherefore and whither bear'st thou up my spirit, 483 

While the blue is richest, 565 

Whisper, thou tree, thou lonely tree, 473 

Whither, celestial maid, so fast away, 53 

Whither, oh whither, wilt thou wing thy way, 628 

Who watches on the mountains with the dead, 598 

Why art thou thus in thy beauty cast, 524 

Why lingers my gaze where the last hues of day, 149 

Why wouldst thou leave me, O gentle child, 423 

Wildly and mournfully the Indian drum, 406 

Willow ! in thy breezy moan, 542 

With sixty knights in his gallant train, 238 

With what young life and vigour in its breath, 256 

Wouldst thou to love of danger speak, 48 

Wouldst thou wear the gift of immortal bloom, 439 

Wrapt in sad musings, by Euphrates' stream, 43 

Ye are not miss'd, fair flowers, that late were spreading, 542 

Ye have been holy, O founts and floods, 474 

Ye met at the stately feasts of old, 480 

Ye tell me not of birds and bees, 499 

Ye too, the free and fearless birds of air, 602 

Yes ! all things tell us of a birthright lost, 622 

Yes ! I came from the spirit's land, 343 

Yes ! I have seen the ancient oak, 347 

Yes ! it is haunted, this quiet scene, 358 

Yes ! it is ours : the field is won, 245 

Yes ! rear thy guardian hero's form, 485 

Yes ! thou hast met the sun's last smile, 360 

Yet as a sun-burst flushing mountain-snow, 599 

Yet, rolling far up some green mountain-dale, 618 

You ugliest of fabrics ! you horrible eyesore, 382 



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